How to Apologize to Molly
by thefaultoflegend
Summary: When Sherlock insults Molly and she's finally had enough of him, he has to figure out a way to win her back.When he goes to her flat, however, he is interrupted by a call from Lestrade, wanting him to come work on a case that really hits home for Sherlock, and he has to balance his feelings for Molly while trying to solve it. When Molly gets involved, things get interesting.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is the third story to a one-a-day challenge I'm giving myself. This will definitely be at least a two chapter story, but I'm thinking about making it a multi-chapter involving a case that really hits home for Sherlock and Molly. So let me know what you think and thanks for reading!—thefaultoflegend**

"Molly, please. I don't think it's really too much to ask for."

"Sherlock! It is a lot to ask for and there's no way I'm letting it happen."

"But I need it for a case!"

"Well then you can waltz yourself down to the bloody morgue and use it there!"

John Watson climbed the steps to his old flat in great trepidation as he heard what was transpiring above him. He listened to the argument of his two friends with great amusement. It wasn't every day that someone fought back and wouldn't give Sherlock Holmes his way. But, the pathologist from St. Bart's was certainly up to the job. John smirked thinking that all it took to take down the world's only consulting detective was the once quiet, Molly Hooper. The yelling continued as John let himself into the flat, not bothering to knock. He walked in to find the flat in a state of shambles. There were dirty clothes and take out containers everywhere across the living room, and the kitchen, where he encountered Sherlock and Molly, had exploded with Sherlock's various experiments. Body parts were placed haphazardly across the countertops and chemicals lay about the room. In the middle of it all stood a pajama-clad Sherlock with goggles on top of his head that were causing his hair to stick out everywhere, and Molly, who stood with her hands on her hips, still lecturing away.

"How exactly do you expect me to get an entire body out of the morgue and into 221B?" asked Molly now as Sherlock popped his goggles back on and peered over some sort of concoction on the stove.

"You get the body. I'll have Mycroft take care of the rest," replied the detective, not even bothering to look at her.

"You can't get your brother to help you with everything! And the bottom line is I'm not getting you the body." John watching, trying to hold back laughter as Sherlock stood upright and ran his eyes up and down Molly's small form.

"You look very nice today," he said finally, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster up.

"That stuff doesn't work on me anymore," replied Molly without even flinching. John felt a swell of pride for the woman who had come so far when it came to dealing with Sherlock. Long gone were the days where she waited on him hand and foot every time he complimented her.

"You've been so impossible ever since you broke off that engagement with what's-his-face," stated Sherlock, now glaring heavily. "You won't get me any body parts anymore and are never at the lab when I tell you to be. Besides that you've lost weight, making you're already too-small body even smaller, you have bags under your eyes at all times which are never covered up since you seem to have completely forgotten how to use make-up, and you cry constantly. I can always tell. I honestly don't know why you left him if you were going to be so miserable all the time."

Molly Hooper did not even hesitate to promptly slap Sherlock Holmes across the face. John was still in the kitchen, leaning against a wall in the corner. The pair hadn't even noticed him come in and now he desperately tried to stifle his laughter as Sherlock stood there, his mouth hanging wide open and completely speechless. After a second of Sherlock looking surprised at Molly and Molly giving him a death-glare back, the detective closed his mouth and then opened it again as if to say something.

"Not a word, Sherlock Holmes," interrupted Molly. "You deserved that and you know it. Now you will quit this experimenting, clean up this horrid flat before you give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack, and never ask me about that damn body ever again." And with that Molly stormed out of the flat, slamming the door on her way out.

After a few moments, Sherlock took off his goggles, slammed them on the table, and began cleaning up the messy kitchen. Now it was John's turn to look shocked as he watched his best friend actually following Molly's demands and pulling cleaning products out of a cupboard.

John cleared his throat. "That was a bit not good, mate," he said to Sherlock's back.

"I know," he replied while turning off the burner he was working with and putting body parts back into the refrigerator. John was silent for a few minutes while he watched Sherlock. He actually looked a little bit sad, as if he was actually sorry for what he said to Molly. "John," he said after most of the counters were cleared off. "Can you get my phone for me? It's in my coat pocket."

John walked over to the couch and dug Sherlock's coat out from under a pile of button up shirts. He dug the phone out and handed it to Sherlock who was now sitting in his chair. John took the opposite one and watched his friend's eyes glaze over as he went to his mind palace, his phone pressed up against his mouth.

"What are you thinking about?" asked John, while Sherlock's consciousness searched frantically through a room titled "Molly Hooper."

"How to apologize to Molly." He then unlocked his phone, dialed and held the phone up to his ear. John watched in amazement as Sherlock actually took the time to call Molly. He didn't even do that with John, unless it was really important.

As Molly walked down the street, she felt the buzzing in her pocket that indicated an incoming call. She was surprised to see Sherlock's name pop up on the caller ID. He never called. She tried to pull herself together. She was so sick of dealing with Sherlock lately. He was becoming even harder to handle, and even Molly found herself battling to keep up with him. He was right about everything of course. She had been miserable ever since she broke the engagement off with Tom. She wasn't eating or sleeping. She cried all the time. And she even thought about going back to him more than once. But in the end, she stayed away. Molly had always been one for doing what was morally right and marrying a man when one is in love with someone else didn't hold up to her standards. If only Sherlock could get it through his daft brain that he was the reason she did it. He hassled her for weeks about it, frustrated that even he couldn't deduce the motives behind Molly's actions. But when it came to Molly, he always saw but he never observed.

She sighed while trying to decide whether or not to answer her still buzzing phone. She figured it was important if he called and not texted, so she took a deep breath, willing her voice not to break during their conversation and answered. "Hello?" she said quietly, suddenly losing all the conviction she had during their fight.

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments before speaking up. "You answered," he said but it came out more like a question. He didn't actually expect her to give him any sort of response after what he just said to her.

"Well, yes, Sherlock. You called. I figured it was important," she said, now sounding a bit more irritated. She started walking again back to her flat, ready to just sit on the couch and mindlessly watch television while escaping for a bit.

"It is important," he replied, able to find his voice again. "I request that you come back to 221B immediately."

Molly rolled her eyes. "And why should I do that?" She wasn't willing to have two tiffs with Sherlock Holmes in the same day.

"So…that…uh…" Back at the flat, John laughed as Sherlock was speechless for the second time that day, and all because of Molly.

"So that you can apologize," mouthed John to Sherlock.

"Right!" cried the detective. "So that you can apologize." John hit himself in the head with his palm before walking over and hitting Sherlock over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

"So that you, Sherlock, can apologize, you git," he said to his friend. Molly got to her flat and unlocked to door, only imagining what was happening over on Baker Street.

"That's what I meant," said Sherlock to John before turning his mouth back to the phone. "Molly, so that I can apologize."

"Save it, Sherlock. I don't need to hear it today," she replied and hung up, feeling quite proud of herself for standing up to him.

At 221B, Sherlock stared down at his phone, his mouth agape. "Right," he said, "new plan." He walked over to grab his coat and thread his scarf around his neck. "The game, John, is on."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay so because I got a lot of followers on the last chapter, I'm turning this into a multi-chapter fic that I've been thinking about doing. I'm changing the rating to T, just to be safe, and the summary will be changing.** **However, the title will remain the same. This story will now feature a case that really hits home for Sherlock all while he's battling with his increasing feelings for Molly. There will be plenty of suspense, deduction, and Sherlolly fluff. I really like where this is going and I hope you do, too. This chapter is still just introductory stuff. Let me know what you guys think and thanks so much for reading and reviewing!—thefaultoflegend**

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock strode down Molly's street, making his way to her apartment but not before getting a call from his best friend. "Sherlock whatever you do, do not act like an arse. Be nice to her. I know you struggle with that but do try your best, okay?" Sherlock told John not to be ridiculous, that of course he could be nice to Molly Hooper, and hung up the phone, now knocking on Molly's flat door. He was going to just pick the lock and let himself in but a voice in his head that sounded exactly like John's said that that would be a bit not good. He could hear Molly's soft footfall coming closer to the door and felt her weight against the wood as she peered into the peek hole.

"Go away, Sherlock," she said, but still stood by the door. Her voice was strained, he could tell that she had been crying and felt a pang of something in his stomach. What was that? Guilt? Remorse? Of course it was. That's why he was here in the first place, right? To make amends with Molly Hooper. He sighed at the fact that he was feeling, and try as he may, he couldn't push it down.

"Molly," he said, his tone almost sincere. "Please let me in. I brought your favorite pizza and a game for us to play. And I need to apologize." He held up his arms, showing the pizza box and bag that were hanging off of them. He knew that she would still be peering through the door. He heard her sigh as the door creaked, signaling that she backed off. He smiled a bit as she turned the knob and let him in. When he walked into the flat, he could see that yes, she had been crying and that yes, it was most likely his fault.

"How did you know that was my favorite pizza" she asked quietly, eyeing the box that Sherlock was now setting on the small coffee table in the living room. She was expecting some drawn out explanation of a deduction but what she got was much simpler.

"You told me once," he said while pulling out Operation the board game, two paper plates, napkins, and two cans of soda.

"And you remembered?"

"Of course I did. I put it in your room," he replied, confidently at first but then blushing towards the end of the sentence, realizing his sudden admission.

Molly sat on the floor behind the coffee table, tucking her legs together, a little shocked that Sherlock Holmes had an entire room up in that mind palace of his that was dedicated to her. She realized that for as much as he insults and uses her, maybe she did actually matter to this consulting detective. She realized that Sherlock sat down on the opposite side, now pulling out a pizza slice to put on her plate. She mumbled a thanks and took a small bite, loving the taste. It was one of her comfort foods, something that could always make her feel just a bit better.

"Did John tell you to do this?" she asked. She couldn't imagine that Sherlock thought this all up on his own, but something in his eyes said that he was truly sorry for the fight they had earlier.

"No. Surprisingly this one is all on me," he replied, looking down as his dark curls hung in his face. "Did I do okay?" he asked her sheepishly.

"You forgot the apology part," she reminded him and he nodded slowly, setting down his pizza a folding his hands in front of him. He took a breath before settling his eyes on the pathologist.

"Molly. I am truly sorry for pestering you about the body. I realize that it would be unprofessional and you could risk losing your job and I shouldn't have asked you about it in the first place. I am also sorry for complimenting you and thinking it would make me get my way. But, you do in fact, look lovely today." She glared at him, knowing full well that it was all part of the plan to get her to forgive him. He smiled at her, knowing she made the deduction. "Okay, so that didn't work. Again." They both chuckled and Molly could slowly feel the tension leaving the air around them. Sherlock continued. "I'm sorry that you're sad. I don't know what it's like to let go of a loved one, but it looks like you're going through a hard time and I'm not sure what to do about it," he admitted to her.

"Well insulting me isn't a good way to go about making me feel better," she said now looking down at her hands, fumbling with them.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll try harder. I'm not sorry, however, that you broke it off. It's true what I said about not knowing why you did it. But just know that I'm glad you did," he told her and reached for another slice of pizza. It seemed as if he wanted to just brush the last statement off but Molly wasn't going to let that happen. Why would he care if she broke it off or not?

"Why are you glad?" she asked him. He ignored her completely instead pulling out the Operation game and starting to set it up on the table. He handed her the tweezers and motioned for her to go first. "Nope. Answer my question," she said and crossed her arms over her chest. Sherlock scowled clearly not wanting to get into this talk.

"Molly, that guy was an idiot," he stated simply.

"Sherlock, that guy has a name. And he was a lot like you," she said feeling both of their anger rising up again.

"Oh, so you admit it? I was going to deduce that when I first met him, but didn't want to run the risk of getting slapped," he said running his hands through his dark curls.

"Sherlock, why do you care so much? I really don't get it. Why does it matter why I broke it off? Why are you glad that I did?" she yelled now and stood up. He mirrored her actions, now getting angry as well.

"I care because I…" he cut himself off quickly, not even believing what was about to come out of his own mouth. He turned around suddenly, holding up a finger to Molly, a signal for her to wait a minute. He put his hands against his lips and closed his eyes. Molly just crossed her arms and sighed in irritation. Sherlock, in the meantime, was in his mind palace with the one and only Molly Hooper.

"Why was I just about to say that?" he asked the girl who stood before him. When she didn't answer back and just continued to stare at him, he went on. "I can't like Molly Hooper. Liking is a hindrance to my work. So since when did I start liking her?" The girl just smirked. "Okay, I always liked her. But not with…with… romantic intent." The words came out like a question, as if he was testing the way that they felt on his lips. He realized that the thought had never even occurred to him before he almost said it right to Molly. In retrospect, he noticed the signs. Feeling jealousy for Tom, trying to find something wrong with him, feeling bad for hurting Molly every time he said or did something stupid, and feeling elation when he found out that her engagement was over. But she would never want to enter a relationship with him after all the horrible things he said and did to her. Shut up, he thought to himself after that idea made its way into his head. It startled him a bit, the fact that his body and his mind had lost their synchronization for that small instant, but an instant big enough to change everything. He took a big breath before regaining control of himself and turning back to the real-life Molly.

"Never mind, Molly. Let's just play. I came over here to make up with you, not get into another fight." He sat down and she sat down as well, knowing that just going along with him would be easier than arguing. But, she couldn't help but wonder why he refused to answer her questions. They sat for a while in silence, the only noise coming from the buzzing of the game whenever one of them messed up. He was clearly lost in his mind somewhere.

"If you really want to know, I'll tell you." He looked up suddenly from the game, touching the edge and making the buzzer go off. Molly decided that if she didn't fix this now, it would always hang between them. "I broke it off with Tom because…" She was cut off by the ringing of his phone.

"Keep going," he said, ignoring his phone and hanging on her every word.

"No. Answer it." He sighed and hit the talk button.

"Hello? Yes, Lestrade. Describe it to me. I'm a little bit busy. Yes, it sounds like a seven. It might be worth my time. I know you really need me. You always really need me. Yes, I'll meet you there." He hung up and stood up, beginning to put on his coat. "Scotland Yard needs me. I have to go. The case sounds interesting enough and I've been very bored. Keep the game. Maybe I'll come buy again and we can play. Bye, Molly." It all came out very rushed and he was out the door before she could even get a goodbye out in reply. She sighed and leaned back against the couch.

"Because of you, Sherlock," she whispered. "I broke it off because of you."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi, everyone! It's a bit of a short chapter tonight. So sorry about that but spring break is coming up which means I can write more. I hope you enjoy it and I'll update with more tomorrow. Thanks so much for everyone who reviewed and thanks for reading!- thefaultoflegend**

"Okay. Explain again," stated Sherlock, barely passing a glance to the police who were holding the crime scene tape as he crossed over. He went straight from Molly's flat to the scene, sending a quick text to John on his way there. Now Lestrade led the pair inside the small flat where a woman laid face-down in the middle of the lounge. There were no obvious signs of blood anywhere, and her limbs were all spread out to her sides. She lay on the side of her face, her hair covering it partially. The living area looked clean, other than the obvious dead body that couldn't be missed as soon as one walked into the door. Sherlock looked around the room, taking note of everything as Lestrade talked.

"Her name is Angela Strong. Her mother hadn't heard from her in a few days," started Lestrade. Sherlock's mind buzzed with deductions. _Lives alone. One coat on the coatrack, one pair of shoes by the door. Educated. Bookshelf is full and many have been used recently. Degrees hanging on the walls. _"She came and found her exactly like this." _Pants are put on haphazardly. She didn't do it herself. Rape attempt? _"She has a gunshot wound to the chest. She was shot in the bedroom." _Definite rape attempt. Use of a drug? No sign of a struggle. Why did he kill her?"_

Sherlock walked into the near bedroom to check out the place where the actual murder happened while John put on a pair of gloves and examined the body. "Yes, gunshot wound but I suspect possible drug use, probably forced by him. He raped her and then shot her in the bedroom." Sherlock gestured around him as he spoke. Blood splattered the sheets of the girl's bed that were folded surprisingly neatly for someone to be murdered there. "And then he moved her," he continued. "But why would he move her? Why would he take the time to do that?"

"How do you know it was a guy?" asked Lestrade. Sherlock dismissed him easily. "Bruise marks on the girl's wrist. The marks are too big to come from a woman's hand." Sherlock put his hands to his mouth, trying to block out the noise from the other officers on the scene. _Why did he move her? Why did he move her?_

"He was obviously just trying to get rid of the body," yelled a voice from across the flat.

"Shut up, Anderson. You complete idiot," Sherlock yelled back and walked back out to the lounge where John had just finished looking things over on the woman. "He put her here purposely. Look at the way her body is laying. Her legs are equal distances apart; her arms are splayed out in the same way. If he was just trying to get rid of the body and failed to do so, she wouldn't look like this." Sherlock was seething by the time he was done and Lestrade waved for Anderson to leave. "Do you have anything, John?" Sherlock asked the doctor, who nodded rapidly.

"Female, age 33, height approximately 163 centimeters. Cause of death is confirmed gun-shot wound to the chest. Also, there are numerous marks on her left arm. They look to be about two days old which means that the killer most likely did it. Could be that he tortured her? Or that it's some type of message," replied John, bending to flip the girl's arm over to let Sherlock get a good look. Sherlock slipped on a pair of gloves. He held her arm and brushed the tips of his gloved fingers over the small cuts that lined her wrists. They were done with a simple blade, neatly lined in a row. The killer had done it after he killed her, so she wouldn't move around. It was a message, alright. The girl's skin was pale and something about the way her brown hair was splayed out sent a signal to Sherlock's brain. He stared at her turned head, lightly brushing away the strands that were covering her brown, open eyes. The girl held a sense of familiarity for Sherlock, even though he knew they had never met before. He looked at the girl for a moment longer, trying to place the weird feeling in his stomach, when he reached out and gently pulled down her eyelids. John watched the display from the side, wondering what had suddenly come over his friend. He looked almost saddened, when he was normally so hard during a case. He never had cared about a victim before. He had even been seen laughing on scene's before, but never looking as somber as he did in that moment.

"You alright, mate?" asked John.

"Yeah," he whispered before clearing his throat and shaking his curls, standing up now and returning to his usual indifferent self. "Yeah. There are thirteen cuts. It's a code. I don't know what for," he said with more force, and turned back to the people before him. "Are there any traces of the killer?"

"No. Nothing that we could find. We're trying to gather more information about her last day," said Lestrade, shrugging his shoulders.

"Okay. That's all I need. I'll have my pathologist check for drugs in her system. In the meantime, I'll figure out the code." Both Greg and John just stared at him, confused looks on their faces and both thinking the same thing, _his pathologist?_ "What?" asked Sherlock, looking at the two of them.

"Nothing," recovered John. Greg just shook his head. "Let's go catch this killer."

The next day, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, still trying to figure out the scene from the day before. _Thirteen marks. Why thirteen? A date, apartment number, age, superstition. No. Why was the body like that? He wanted us to see. Will there be more? Probably. Beginnings of a serial killing. Who was he? Why did he kill her? _His thoughts were interrupted by a ding from his phone.

He was her date. He had reservations at a restaurant but they never made it here. Nobody has a name. The reservations were under a Smith, not exactly a lot to go on. - DI Lestrade

Anything yet? - DI Lestrade

The name was fake. And not yet. Going to the lab soon. - SH

He stood up from the chair and started pacing around the room, suddenly thinking about to the girl lying on the hardwood floor of the flat. Why had she affected him so much? It was just another case. A confusing one, as there was nothing to go on. He needed a better look at the body.

Did you do Strong yet? - SH

No. Just about to start now. - Molly

Be there in twenty. - SH


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I just wanted to give a shout out to everyone who reviewed so far! It really means a lot and lets me know that I'm staying on track. Special thanks to IslandGem who said my characters weren't OOC, which is one of the biggest compliments to me. I hope I don't disappoint with future chapters. I hope you guys like this one. Also, I can't update tomorrow but I promise I'll post a new chapter sometime this weekend. Let me know what you think in reviews and thanks for reading!- thefaultoflegend**

* * *

Tom had called her last night. Molly was cleaning up the pizza mess, that Sherlock left when he came into her flat and then left like the whirlwind that he was, when her phone rang. She was expecting it to be Sherlock, honestly, telling her that he needed her to do something for him. She wasn't mad at him anymore. She had never actually been mad at him. It was just that he was a constant reminder of why she would never be able to find anybody to settle down with. And he was around all the time. Recently they had been together quite a lot. She helped him more on cases, with John taking care of his daughter and wife, and he kept her less lonely. It seemed as if when he kept her mind occupied on a body or on a case, she forgot everything that was going on around her. She didn't have to think about her failed engagement, or the fact that she returned to her flat on most nights alone, watching telly and cuddling with her cat before retiring to bed. Those were the nights when she didn't go to Sherlock's or Sherlock didn't go to her flat, because there was quite a lot of that, too. Their relationship was completely platonic, but it made sense for them to hang out. Molly was alone, Sherlock was alone, but being alone together wasn't so bad. In fact, Molly actually had fun when they weren't arguing about body parts or fiancées. And Sherlock didn't seem as bored as he normally was. They would play board games or watch crap telly. They did little experiments together and talk about books they were reading. She could honestly say that Sherlock Holmes was her best friend, even if he didn't consider her anything but the pathologist who worked at St. Bart's. For the most part, the insults had stopped except for the occasional slip ups which he got better at apologizing for, hence the pizza and the board game. Even though he left that night before she could tell him how she felt, she didn't feel as lonely as before. So, when Tom called her that night wondering what she was up to, she wasn't tempted to go with him at all. She even felt proud of herself for hanging up on him after he started begging her to take him back. Sherlock was right, he was an idiot, and incredibly boring. Molly needed excitement. And this new case was a good distraction.

She uncovered the girl, Angela Strong, and started to remove her clothing, placing it in a box off to the side. The jumper that the girl wore was crusted with dried blood and her bra was ripped to shreds where the bullet had gone through. Molly thought of a small apology in her head to the girl, knowing that it wasn't fair that her life had ended so early. She could work on dead bodies easily, but she couldn't help but feel just a little sorry about their deaths. She began to remove the girl's pants when something caught her eye. It floated slowly to the floor below her and Molly picked it up gently, realizing that it was a small piece of paper.

Just then, Sherlock burst through the doors, walking right over to where she stood beside the body. "Hi," she greeted him while giving him a small glance, and he was relieved to see that she was in a better mood than she had been the last couple of days.

"Hello. What's that?" he asked her while going to reach for the paper that Molly was holding. She snatched it away from him, wanting to inspect herself first. He gave her a look but she ignored it.

"I think it was in her pocket." She inspected it more closely. "It looks like there's a date on it. February 12, 2012. What do you think it means?" Sherlock reached for the piece of paper again, this time being actually able to grab it. Molly could see his eyes focusing on the small sliver, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"Don't know yet. Though I suspect it's all a part of the code. The thirteen marks on her arm. Could be a newspaper article, or a magazine, or something that happened on that day," he stated, trying to deduce what the date could mean. He talked more out loud when he was with Molly, as she was always curious about how his mind worked, and he didn't mind if she listened. She had actually picked up a few deduction skills herself by listening to the detective's ramblings and it helped a lot when they were out on cases together.

"Are you sure that the killer wrote it?" she asked, coming over to his side of the table to get a closer look.

"Yeah. See it was written fast, almost scribbled." He pointed to the smeared lines on the paper. "And he was left handed. The bullet was more off to the girl's left side than the right. The ink is smeared so it means his hand ran over it while writing. The girl is…" he trailed off, leaning away from Molly to reach over to the girl's neck, inspecting something behind it. "…right handed. The clasp from her necklace is on her right side. So he had to have written it." He looked over at Molly when he was done with his ramblings and suddenly realized how close they were standing. Their sides were touching and he almost bumped his chin in the top of her head when he turned his. She was staring intently between the paper and the girl and Sherlock could hear her thinking, rather loudly and rather quickly, seemingly unaware of the look from the consulting detective.

"Maybe you should check some of her books or any academic articles she was working on. It's probably a letter cypher, right?" She turned her head to see him staring at her intently. She blushed a bit from the closeness and gave him a small smile.

"Am I forgiven?" he said suddenly, and softly, so uncharacteristic of Sherlock, but a voice that she was hearing more and more form him lately.

"I'm sorry?" she said confused, still thinking that they were talking about the case.

"About last night. Am I forgiven?" he asked again. And she realized that he was still thinking about the night before. He hadn't wanted to think about it, but with the way things were going between the two of them, having Molly mad at him was like having John mad at him. He didn't like it a single bit and their fight nagged at him on his walk over to St. Bart's earlier.

"Yes," she said. Neither of them had backed away. They still stood shoulder to shoulder, a forgotten piece of paper held between them and their heads bent to see the each other. "You're always forgiven."

"Good. I don't like being on bad terms with you." She smiled softly and heard the doors bang open from behind her. Sherlock and Molly jumped from the noise as John walked into the room, ready to help Sherlock figure out the code of the murderer. He took note of his surroundings when he walked it, seeing that Sherlock and Molly had been surprised by his entrance, meaning that they were both engrossed with something, obviously each other.

"Sorry. Am I interrupting something?" he asked with a smirk as the pathologist and the consulting detective stared back at him.

"No," said Sherlock and John could swear there was a blush creeping up Sherlock's neck. "Don't be ridiculous, John." Molly just smiled and rolled her eyes, getting back to the job at hand.

* * *

The team of three continued examining the body for any more clues, coming up with nothing else. Molly started filling out her paperwork and cleaning up the area when Sherlock caught her leaning over the girl. He felt something in his stomach again, and something lurched in his brain, telling him to pay attention. He tried so hard but Molly was chatting to John about a movie she recently saw and Sherlock was pulled in by her words and the way she smiled when she retold a funny scene and how her nose scrunched up and how he shouldn't be thinking these things about Molly Hooper and he needs to focus on this case and figure out what about the dead girl is making him feel this way but his mind is racing again and is John asked him a question and is he still staring at Molly?

"Sherlock," said John, finally gaining the attention from the consulting detective. He snapped his gaze away from Molly and turned to his friend. "You okay?" He nodded. "We should go down to her flat, try to figure out what this code could mean."

"Yeah. Okay," he said distractedly while following John to the doors of the morgue. "Oh and Molly?" he says before completely leaving. She looked up at him from the clipboard she was currently writing on.

"Don't worry. I'll let you know about those tests as soon as I get them done," she said, talking about the drug tests she was running on the girl.

His mind started racing all of the sudden. The girl was around the same age as Molly, maybe that's why he felt strange whenever he looked at her. Maybe she reminded him of Molly a little bit. He started to think about what it would feel like to show up on a crime scene and see Molly instead of just another unrecognizable face, but he immeadiately forced that idea down. Not wanting to even imagine how he would react. "No," he said. "It's not that. Just… don't go on any dates with strange guys for a while, okay?" He looked over to the now zipped up body bag and she followed his gaze to the dead woman there. She nodded knowingly, surprised by the concern of her friend.

"Guess that means I can't hang out with you anymore either," she laughed and saw him relax a bit from where he was standing in the doorway. He smiled as she giggled and made a face at her.

"You know what I meant. See you later, Molly," he replied and walked out, but not without noticing the smirk that John was currently giving him.

"Bye, Sherlock!" called Molly before the door shut and turned back to her clipboard with a grin on her face.

John and Sherlock continued down the hallway with John thinking about the displays he had seen in his friend over the past couple of days. First there was fighting with Molly but then actually calling her and going to her flat to apologize, then there was his little comment of his pathologist as if he owned the girl, and now all of this in the morgue. He grinned up at his friend.

"So I see that you two made up," he said nonchalantly.

"Yes it would seem that's the case," Sherlock replied simply, but John wasn't about to let him just drop the topic entirely.

"Sherlock, how to you see Molly?" He thought for a moment, knowing the answer but wondering how John would react to it.

"Molly is my best friend. Other than you, of course." John stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Gaping at his friend. "What?" asked Sherlock. "She's my friend right? She goes on cases with me. We eat dinner and experiment together. She's not even boring. I mean she helped me fake my death, John. I'd call that friendship."

"Yes, I would call that friendship. But, you, Sherlock Holmes, are not one to easily use the words best friend," said John, now catching up the detective as they exited and went to hail a cab.

"But it's you and Molly. The two of you are different," replied Sherlock. They climbed into a cab, giving the driver the address of Angela Strong's flat.

John was still a little bit stunned by this sudden very normal human behavior from his friend. Sherlock had a hard time saying that John was his best friend. But Molly Hooper? There had to be a further explanation. "Sherlock," began John and his friend looked over at him. "Sherlock. I'm going to ask you something and I want you to be honest with me, okay? Because it's completely okay for the answer to this question to be yes. In fact, I encourage the answer to be yes. I think it would be really good for you. Just…"

"John just ask the bloody question. You're wasting my time," interrupted Sherlock, still looking at John. John took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, do you like Molly Hooper in any sort of romantic way?" John expected the answer to me a flat out no. He knew that even if Sherlock did like her, even he was capable of liking her, his answer would still be no. So what he got instead was a shock to both of them.

"I don't know."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Bit of a boring and short chapter tonight, but I promise it's going to pick up. I want to thank every single one of you who have reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. It means so much and it only makes me want to get this story out to you guys faster. If you like this story, be sure to check out my one-shots. I'd love to hear from you guys in reviews and thanks for reading!- thefaultoflegend**

* * *

"You don't know?" John asked bewildered. Sherlock looked down, avoiding eye contact. He just shrugged his shoulders and tried to change the subject.

"Her bookshelf is frequently used so it might take a while to find the cypher…"

"No. No way are you changing the subject. Are you being serious when you say you don't know? And I don't mean Sherlock serious. I mean real people serious."

"John, this is a waste of both of our times. If you do remember we are currently on a case that could turn into a serial killing," said Sherlock in a rush, growing more agitated.

"Yes," replied John. "A case where we have nothing to go on except a few numbers and we can't do anything until we get to the girl's flat. Which leaves time for conversation. So, are you being serious?"

Sherlock just sighed, deciding that answering the question would take a lot less time than arguing. "Yes, John. Currently I'm not sure of my affections toward Molly Hooper." He blushed and desperately hoped the cab would go faster.

This time, John wasn't shocked by his friend's confession. "Okay well then let's figure it out. How do you feel when you're around her?" asked John, trying to make the conversation as simple as possible for the man who was obviously infatuated but needed to admit it to himself.

"I feel…" Sherlock began. He stopped and restarted the sentence several times before sighing and leaning his head against the window. "Do we have to have this conversation?" he asked, crossing his arms across his chest and looking very much like a five year old.

"How about yes or no questions? Can you handle that?" Sherlock nodded. "Good. So are you bored when you're with her?"

"I already told you, John. She's not boring. And I'm not bored when with her."

"Okay. Do you like being around her?"

"Yes."

"And do you consider her one of your best friends?"

"Yes."

"Do you find her…aesthetically pleasing?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Are you happier when you're with her?"

"Yes."

"Do you get excited to see her?"

"Yes."

"Do you like her as more than a friend?"

"Yes." John's smile grew wide on his face and he mentally counted to three before he watched realization reach Sherlock's face. "Wait. No. That's not what I meant."

"But is it?" John asked his friend. Meanwhile Sherlock was still trying to figure out how his emotions were taking over his body. He thought for a few moments, trying to figure out what to say back, while John gave him his space, letting him figure it out for himself. Because, yes, Sherlock did care for Molly quite a bit. And he did enjoy spending time with her. But liking her? In his mind palace now, he slowly walked over to her room. The consulting detective rested his head against the door, hearing little bits of conversations leak through the cracks, but felt hesitation on opening it.

"It doesn't matter, John. Feelings, especially the romantic ones, are defects that are for the weak. They're unnecessary."

"Sherlock, I understand you're thinking. And romantic feelings may be unnecessary but they are completely…" John stopped, unsure of how to explain love to the man who up until recently, wouldn't let himself feel.

"Chemical?" Sherlock offered.

"Natural," said John with a new look of satisfaction crossing his face. "Look, Sherlock. Meeting Mary is the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's what keeps me going. She always knows exactly what to say when I'm upset, I can always count on her to make me laugh. Yes, we have definitely had our rough spots, probably more than most couples, but I wouldn't trade that for the entire world. She made me a better man. And from what I see, Molly has made you better. She seems to be able to make you relax when no one else can. She makes you laugh; I catch you laughing with her. And your relationship has grown so much. I mean you just called her your best friend. It might not be that bad to let her in a little bit further than that, mate." Sherlock was silent, but honestly took what his friend said into consideration.

"I will allot one half hour of thinking about Molly Hooper tonight after I'm not thinking about the case. Is that good enough for you?" Sherlock said smugly, but still meaning every word.

"Yes," replied John with a grin, as the two arrived at their location, paid the driver, and hopped out of the cab.

* * *

The scene was much more deserted than it had been the last time they were there. The yellow police tape was now gone, as were the various police cars and people wandering around. The only sign that anything had happened there at all was a yellow X made over the girl's front door. As Sherlock climbed the steps to her flat, he pushed any thought of the conversation he and John had just had and any thought of Molly into the corners of his mind palace, willing them to stay there at least until he was done searching around the scene. Upon entering, Sherlock and John saw the blood stains on the floorboards, a trail of it coming out of the bedroom door. The flat was eerily silent with the only sound coming from the whirring of the heating unit in the corner. Sherlock surveyed the room, looking for anything that might lead the two men to the killer. _Dust prints on the floor? None. Cannot determine shoe size. Cannot determine height. Left over articles of clothing? Cannot be found. Signs of a struggle? Not seen. Experienced killer. _

"I feel like whoever did this knew what he was doing," said John, his voice breaking through the silence.

"Yes, I was just thinking that. Lestrade is struggling to find DNA as well. We'll just have to work on the code for now," replied Sherlock, now making his way into the bedroom to have a look around. "Look for anything that could have a date on it. We don't have a lot to go on." John nodded and began looking through the girl's bedside tables. Sherlock ruffled through some paper work on the desk, looking for the item of February 12, 2012 to pop out at him, but he had no such luck. This case was frustrating him slightly, as the only two clues he had were the number thirteen and a date. There wasn't enough to make any solid conclusions. Sure, he could probably give Lestrade a suspect profile. He would be in his mid- 30s, brown hair if the pictures that were by the victim's bed were any indication. They included several snapshots of her next to a few brunette friends. She was attracted to brunettes. The suspect would be below the girl's standards, probably not as educated as she was. She had her Doctorate, something that Sherlock noticed the first night they were there, so she probably didn't have a lot of time for looking for dates. If this man offered and she was attracted to him, she would have gone. And if she felt more about him, she would have told her friends. But no, he was below her. She was probably more ashamed that she said yes than anything else. So yes, a profile was easy, that was child's play. But there were plenty of 30-something idiotic brown-haired men walking about the streets of London. So what was the specifier? What made him special? How would he stand out?

"I found a few journals," said John, now flipping through a black, bounded book. "No entries in here for that date. But, I'll check the rest." Sherlock simply nodded and proceeded to go out to the kitchen. He looked through drawers and on her fridge, anything that might have a date on it. He found a magazine rack in the living room, pulling them out and sorting through them. He went to the bookshelf and checked all the copyright dates, flipping through the pages of those that looked most recently used. He found nothing for the date so stood up and yelled for John.

"I've got nothing," sighed John and the two stood there, deciding what action to take next when his phone went off.

Found Rohypnol in her system. Let me know if you need anything else- Molly

Sherlock was about to just slide his phone back in his pocket like he normally did when he found his fingers hitting the buttons, typing a message back.

Thank you, Molly- SH

"Okay. There's nothing here. We need to check with her family, find out anything we can." John nodded in agreement as the two left the flat.

"Why did you take this case anyway? It doesn't really seem like it's up your alley."

Sherlock just shrugged. "I was bored. And Lestrade sounded much more desperate for me than it would seem. It is a bit dull; however, it gives me something to do." They spent the rest of the evening visiting the restaurant where the killer had reservations,_ no use of a first name or any indication of location, _checking with the victim's family for any clues, _completely useless, _and finally checking with Lestrade before Sherlock returned to 221B, preparing for a night full of searching for online records, looking for a date, a word, and letter, a sentence, anything to help him find this man.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I wasn't going to do this first scene but a reviewer asked what happened to it, so I decided to include it. It gives a little background as to when this takes place in regards to the show and the state of Sherlock and Molly's friendship. Enjoy and as always thanks for reading and reviewing!- thefaultoflegend**

* * *

Sherlock opened up his laptop and began searching for clues, one half of his brain on the screen and the other half sorting through the case's information in his mind palace. He tried hard to concentrate but John's voice kept butting through. "It might not be that bad to let her in a little bit further…" Before he knew what was even happening, Sherlock was opening the door to Molly's room and breathing deeply before stepping inside. His full attention was now on his mind palace and he realized that he was keeping his promise about thinking about her without even trying. She always found her way into that massive brain of his.

At first, he let himself sift through his memories with her. He thought back to the first time they met, how awkward and nervous she was around him and something about it fascinated him. His mind jumped forward a few years to a flip side of her. She was slapping him across his face, and he was telling her he was fairly thankful for the lack of a ring. She had no clue the sentence held a double meaning until he told her, just the night before, how he was glad Tom was gone. _But why? _he thought to himself. _Why was I so happy about that?_ It turned out to be a good thing for him, of course. She spent a lot more time with him after that. At first, it was just the occasional case. But then one night he was bored and wandered over to her flat. They played Clue and he told her about the case he just got done with. A week later, she showed up to his place drenched from the sudden rain on her walk home and not having money to pay for a cab because she forgot her wallet in her locker at work. Sherlock's place was closer than hers to St. Bart's so she decided to stop there.

"You could have texted me," he remembered telling her while he got her a towel to dry off with and started to clear away some body parts in the kitchen so that he could make tea. "I would have come and got you or at least sent a cab."

They talked and did an experiment on some eyeballs that he had lying around. Sherlock paused the memory there, wondering what happened to him that night. He made the offer to get her, made tea, and gave her cash to get home okay. He didn't even realize the lengths he took to take care of her that night. He just did it.

He thought ahead to a week later when she wanted to pay him back by taking him out for dinner. She showed up to his flat. He told her she looked nice. He took her arm as they walked down the street, enjoying each other's company.

It had been hard whenever he came back after killing Magnessen. He thought he had been leaving forever, and saying goodbye to Molly had been just as difficult as saying goodbye to John. He tried to hold off emotion, though, so kissed her cheek, said a simple goodbye, and left, only to return a few days later with the Moriarty threat being a fake and Mycroft pulling some strings so Sherlock could stay a free man.

Everything returned to normal, well normal for them, anyway. But that night, a few weeks after his return, with Molly, when they went to dinner, felt different to him, a good different. He felt…relaxed. His mind wasn't racing, his deducing was minimalized, with his attention being focused on her and the little stories she told about her cat or her coworkers. He even found himself wanting to tell her things, too, and not about work. He told her a funny conversation he had with Mrs. Hudson, the fan mail he received a few days before, and about John's understandable apprehension about becoming a father. And she listened and responded and John was right, she made him laugh. He felt content for the first time in a long time sitting with Molly in a small Italian restaurant while sipping wine and eating with her, even though he was technically on a case. He even paid, stopping her arguments that it was supposed to be a repayment for the cab fare. He told her it was his thank you for giving him some pleasant company. He walked her home, kissed her on the cheek. He loved the smile he received in return.

After that, those kinds of occurrences became their new normal, mixed in with the cases and the dead bodies and the occasional arguments about lab access and ex-fiancées. And Sherlock liked watching their friendship grow. He even bought her a chair, setting it next to John's. She would come over to sit and chat or just read in companionable silence, and Sherlock enjoyed it.

And that's why he couldn't go a step further with Molly, he decided suddenly, as he broke free from the memories and was faced with her mind-palace-self, standing in the middle of the room with a smile on her face and her lab coat on. He almost lost her more than once and he wasn't going to do it again. All it would take was one stupid remark or idiotic action on his part and she wouldn't be his pathologist anymore. Sure, it was easy when they were friends. He did something stupid, he apologized, and they moved on. But, Sherlock seemed to think that the added weight of romantic attachments would make his actions heavier as well. And he couldn't put Molly through his inexperience and daftness when it came to women. No, thought Sherlock. It's good as it is, right? Why try to fix something or change something that isn't broken? _Because it could turn out better_, said a voice that sounded like John's. The mind-palace Molly smiled wider, she heard it too.

"Must you make things so difficult?" he said to her as she chuckled.

"You're doing what you do best and overthinking, Sherlock," she replied. "Love doesn't have to be difficult." He simply stared at her, and then nodded, backing out of her room and then his whole palace. His eyes snapped open as he took in his surroundings. He checked his phone to see that his allotted half hour of thinking about Molly turned into a full sixty minutes. He sighed, rubbed his hands against his eyes, and opened the laptop, hoping to actually get some work done this time.

* * *

One the other side of town, a 30-something idiotic brown-haired man watched a woman walk into the bookstore from where he was standing on the corner of the isolated street. The bell chimed on the door as he quickly followed her, catching the door before it shut, and walking in. The bookstore was small, with yellow-paged leather-bounds and worn-in chairs scattered about. The man stood on the rug by the entrance, stomping the water off of his boots as the older-looking cashier greeted him.

"Hello, dear," she said, peering over her half-moon glasses. She had a puff of white hair on the top of her head and wore an old blue jumper. Her voice was sweet and the man couldn't help but flash her a fake smile. "Can I help you find anything?" His smile turned malicious at her question, thinking that yes, he was here for something, but nothing that he needed help finding.

"No, ma'am. I'm fine, thank you." She nodded and gave him a smile before turning back to a book she was reading. His eyes searched the store, his feet moving on their own accord, past history, past biography, past sci-fi, past mystery. He paused when he got to romance. Standing between the stacks of books was the woman, her brown hair hanging in her face as she peered into the pages of a paperback. Her eyes danced softly across the words and she held the book with such care that the man knew she was perfect, perfect for this plan. He watched her close the book carefully before picking up another and cracking the spine. He took a big breath, readying himself, before slowly waltzing down the aisle.

He stood next to the woman and pulled out a book from the shelf, pretending to study the title before dropping it next to the woman's feet. She looked down with a frown before bending down and picking it up, handing it back to the man without so much as a glance at his face. He muttered a thank you, wondering if he should choose a new target, when she spoke up.

"You like Jane Austen?" came a soft voice as she gazed at him from under her hair. He looked confused, wondering what this girl could possibly be talking about.

"What?" he asked.

"The book." She pointed to the thing in his hands and he looked down, figuring out that she was talking about the author. "It's just that I don't see many men reading Austen."

He needed to up his game and fast. It had taken two days to track down his next target, and he didn't want to go through the hassle of having to do it again. "Oh well, I happen to love Austen. Her characters are brilliant," he lied, giving her a smile.

"Yes, I agree," she replied, her attention now fully focused on him. "I'm Sarah, by the way."

"James," he replied automatically, holding out his hand to her. She shook it gently and then returned to the title she was now exploring. He gave her a minute before speaking up again. "So I don't usually do this but I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner some time."

She turned to him, slightly startled, but then recovered when she saw the grin he wore. He seemed nice, maybe a little bit uneducated, but she hadn't been out on a date in ages. "Well I don't usually do this either but sure," she replied. He grinned wider at her.

"Maybe you could give me your number and we could do something this weekend?" he questioned, acting unsure of himself. He figured she had a soft spot for the shy and nervous type.

"Of course," she said as she ripped a piece of paper and pen from her purse, scribbling the number on it. The man grabbed it, immediately memorizing it so he could dispose of it as soon as he left.

"It was nice to meet you, Sarah. I'll call you soon." He backed away quickly, not even bothering to hear her reply. When he left the shop, he ripped up the strip of paper and tossed in the nearest trash bin. _That was too easy, _he thought to himself as he formulated the next stage in his head. How would he kill the girl this time?


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: It's hard to believe that I started out this story as a two-shot and now we're here on chapter seven with a lot of chapters left to go. I promise you guys that I'm going to finish this story and I'm sorry this update took so long. I don't know if I've said this yet but I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!-thefaultoflegend**

It had been a few days since either John or Molly had heard from Sherlock. After texting him multiple times and calling him more than once, Molly decided to check up on him so John could stay with his family. She made the walk to Sherlock's flat through the soft breeze, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket and her trainers hitting the pavement soundly. It was actually a beautiful day, and she was glad she left her flat. She had the day off and was going to spend it catching up on her reading, watching whatever had accumulated on her DVR in the past week, and cuddling with Toby. When she became restless after the first ten pages of a Harry Potter book she had read five times already, she changed her plans and found herself walking to Baker Street. She approached the door of 221B but heard the ding of a text before she could knock.

Just got your texts. Am fine. - SH

She smirked and quickly texted him back, even though she knew he was just up stairs.

You saw me coming. - Molly

Just then, Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Molly, dear. What are you doing just standing there? Come in, come in."

"Sorry," said Molly sweetly, smiling at the kind lady and crossing the threshold. "I was just here to check on Sherlock."

"Oh he's fine, dear. Been awfully quiet lately, though. I'm sure he'll enjoy your company. He also hasn't eaten anything in a few days, not that I know of. I tried getting him to at least have some biscuits but he refuses. Says he's on the verge of a breakthrough. Maybe you could coax some food into him," she whispered to the pathologist. Molly laughed as she climbed the stairs.

"I'll try," she replied as another ding came from her phone.

Well are you coming up or not? - SH

She rolled her eyes and barged through the door, only to come face to face with another mess. He had newspaper clippings and books lying all over the flat. He stood beside the window, obviously trying to look cool when she walked in. He turned around to face her, his dressing gown swishing around his legs. He looked like he hadn't slept for a few days.

"Molly Hooper." He nodded his head in acknowledgment and went to sit in his chair. She stepped over a pile of journal articles and shoes before making her way to hers, sitting back and staring at him. He just stared back, the two of them not breaking eye contact with each other. It was a small game they played when they were together and both in a good mood. Sherlock had really meant to text her or go down to the morgue but he got caught up in trying to crack this code and he kept reminding himself that he didn't need her for anything. And it was true, he wanted to go to the morgue just to see her, and that thought made him hesitate. When she was there in front of him, a small smile playing on her lips because she knew he was breaking, that he needed to blink, he was reminded that best friends were people one spent time with when they didn't have any ulterior motive. He didn't have to need to see a corpse to see her. He blinked first, not having slept in at least two days. Her smile grew wider.

"I win," she said and he smiled back at her. "So, Sherlock? I distinctly remember telling you to clean this flat about five days ago." He looked around at the mess that had amassed over the past few days. He wondered how he always managed to get a place so cluttered.

"And I distinctly remember cleaning this flat about five days ago. But that was five days ago. And since when do I take orders from you?" he challenged, leaning forward a little bit in his seat.

"Apparently since five days ago." She smirked at him and he couldn't come up with any response to that except to laugh softly and start picking up his scattered papers. She stood up, too, stacking a few books on top of each other. "So what are you doing anyway?"

"Trying to solve that Strong case. I'm not having much luck. I tried searching through all of London's newspapers for that day with nothing to come up. I went through all of the girl's stuff, as you can see. I might just quit this one after a few more days. I thought it might turn into a serial killing with the special way he laid her out and the message, which is usually typical, but I suppose I was wrong as there hasn't been any more activity. I always miss something." He sighed a bit while gathering up the last of the papers and Molly handed him her stack as well.

"Well maybe something else will turn up." He only nodded and sat back down in his chair, rubbing his very tired looking eyes. Molly remembered Mrs. Hudson's request and jumped up to get her phone. "I'm going to order take-away. What do you want?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock," she said in warning. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Whatever you're having," he grumbled and made his way to the bathroom. "I'm getting a shower. Make yourself comfortable." She gave him a smile and started to dial, ordering them some food and thinking about the case that her friend was currently struggling with.

When Sherlock exited the bathroom after a very long and relaxing shower, he found Molly curled up in her chair with his laptop in her lap. He took in the way her small body fit in the chair perfectly and how warm and content she looked. He couldn't help but think that she seemed to fit there, in that chair, in his flat, but he shook off the notion immediately.

"What are you doing with my laptop?" he asked, acting like he cared that she took it without asking but he really didn't.

"Searching for Angela Strong's blog. I thought it could give you some more information," she replied without even turning around to look at him. He walked over and but his hands on her chair's arm rests while leaning over her and peering at the screen. She looked up at him and smiled, his head hanging just above hers. "Do you want to hear it?" He gave a small nod and she started reading the words of a now-dead girl. "I met a man today. I know, I know. I met an actual man. It was quite funny how it happened really. I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop, reading a book. I had my cup of tea sitting there beside me, quickly growing cold because of this book. It's a really good one, I'll tell you about it later. But anyway, this man was suddenly sitting in front of me and staring at me from above his coffee cup. I glanced up at him and he smiled at me before coming over…"

"Stop," cut in Sherlock suddenly. "Boring. Terribly boring. How far back does her blog go?"

Molly went to the sidebars and tried to go back further. "Yes, it goes back that far," she said, already guessing at Sherlock's intentions. He smiled down at her. Out of everyone he knew she was the fastest at keeping up with him. "There's an entry from February 12, 2012. But there's really nothing big. The thirteenth letter is r. The thirteenth word is the. The thirteenth sentence is about some celebrity…"

"Stop right there. I don't need to hear useless information." She smirked and lifted her head up to look at him.

"Feeling better?" she asked him.

"Much. But I'm starving," he replied, completely aware of the close proximity of Molly. And also completely aware that she didn't try to pull away and she didn't stutter or blush. So much had changed in her, but it was for the better. Now she rolled her eyes.

"Food's on the table. Could you bring mine here?" He walked over, grabbed the two takeout containers and then plopped back down on the couch. She sat down beside him and they started eating while he recounted what he found so far, clueing Molly in on the case and falling into their regular routine of dinner together. Half way through his explanation, a loud dinging interrupted him. Molly scrambled for her phone that was sitting on the coffee table in front of them.

"It's Tom," said Sherlock simply, as Molly frowned down at the small screen. "And he's been calling you a lot lately, but you haven't answered him yet but I wonder why not. I mean I know that you broke off the engagement, still haven't figured out why but that's beside the point. But I do know that you're lonely and if he's making that much of an effort then why don't you just answer? You've always been one to give in." His words came out in a rush, his fork in his hand dancing around in the air as he talked.

"No, Sherlock. I used to be one to give in. And then Sherlock Holmes jumped off of a building and I couldn't be that person anymore." She hit the end button on her phone and set it down, going through the same routine that she had every time Tom called her.

"What do you know," he smirked. "Good at solving crimes and making people realize their potential. No wonder the people love me."

"No more than you could love yourself, I'm sure," she mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Nothing." Now his phone went off. He read the text message and jumped up from the couch, starting to put on his coat and scarf. "What is it?"

"It's Lestrade. There's been another murder. Marks on the arm and a date to accompany it. You coming?" He stopped by the door, holding up her coat, with the look of adventure and danger lurking behind is blue eyes. And Molly, she saw it there and didn't turn away. She simply nodded and walked towards him, holding her arms back as he slipped her coat on and led her out of the door. Because Molly, like John, had always been attracted to the morbid, to the adventurous, to the clever. Which is why she fell so hard for Sherlock Holmes, and why these moments, when he was high on the thrill of the journey and talking to her about all the details he had to look for, were the ones she loved the most. And even if the detective could never even come close to liking her back, she would be okay. These moments she had as a friend and a cohort were more than enough for Molly.

They got to the door and he took her arm. And to any other person other than Molly, the grin on his face would seem completely inappropriate as he declared, "The game is on."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter is the result of writer's block and rewatching The Empty Hearse for the billionth time. My Sherlolly feels were on over drive. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading and reviewing!- thefaultoflegend**

Sherlock was right about the connections of the murders. The girl was the first thing he and Molly saw when they walked into her flat. _Lots of books, more degrees, lives alone again. Definitely a theme here._ She was laid out, _brown hair, 35, same height and weight,_ much the same as Angela Strong, except there was no blood this time other than that coming from the cuts that were now on both of her arms. On the left were ten cuts, set meticulously in a straight line going horizontally up the girls arm. On the right were thirty six identical cuts. The cuts were jagged with the blood looking fresh where it started to dry on the side of her arm. Sherlock bent down, inspecting the cut.

"This one is more recent," he commented as Molly went to the girls other side, searching in her trouser pockets.

"Yeah," said Lestrade from where he stood off to the side of the room. He called Sherlock immediately after getting the call of the second murder, knowing that he would be even more interested. "A friend stopped by and found her. We think it was probably about ten minutes after the killer left. There was no sign of him anywhere, and we're having trouble getting some DNA with this one, too."

"So he had plenty of time to get away with no chance of getting caught. The girl can't scream if she's drugged. No one is going to bother the home-body occupant who lives on the third floor."

"Home-body?" questioned Molly who was now standing and observing Sherlock as he did what he did best.

"Yes. The size of the stack of books by her end table is very high and they've all been recently used. There are several pairs of shoes by the door but there's only one pair that gets any use and those are her slippers. Plus she had a date tonight but she didn't even try to dress up. And if she did she failed miserably probably because these clothes are at least a decade old and she never tries to get out and find new ones. Home-body." He took a glance up at Molly and she nodded, holding eye contact for a few minutes. Greg noticed the little exchange and couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was seeking some sort of approval from Molly. He never did the same thing with him or John. But the two just looked at each other, as if having a silent conversation with their eyes before Sherlock was back to work on the body.

"Anyway, he's picking the same target. He knows he won't get caught easily; he sets it up with the girls who keep to themselves and won't tell anyone about their dates. This man is skilled. He either knows what he's doing or he's working for someone who knows what he's doing. I can't find anything, he isn't leaving any traces." Lestrade ran a tired hand over his face and Molly stood there, biting the side of her lip with a very worried look. She stared at the girl lying there, knowing that she looked like Angela Strong, but also aware that both girls resembled herself. When living in a world with Sherlock Holmes, one always had to be on their toes and on a look out for danger. Sherlock stopped talking to Lestrade for a second and diverted his attention to Molly.

"Molly Hooper," he said softly, turning to face her. She looked shyly up at him, suddenly a little bit afraid. He noticed her furrowed eyebrows, the way she was wringing her hands together, and the little hints of fear that were tracing the side of her eyes. She was worried, and had every right to be. He was worried, too. The first time the victim looked like her, it was a little bit off-putting. The second time was much more chilling. He chose to ignore it when he walked into the flat, remembering what happened last time when he was with John and he lost his focus. But the longer they were there, the more it affected him. He was burdened all of the sudden with the knowledge that Molly could now act as a pawn in any game that anybody was wanting to play with him. Before with Moriarty, no one thought twice about her. But now their closeness was obvious, and if anybody wanted to get to Sherlock, they could easily use her. And they would succeed. He would definitely be affected, he was already becoming affected. He worried that it was actually Moriarty now, even though he knew it sounded ridiculous.

"Is everything okay?" He asked her and she just nodded. Sherlock finished talking with Lestrade and then walked over with her. "I have everything I need. We can go." She handed him a strip of paper that she retrieved from the girl's pocket. He glanced at it and saw another date, August 23, 2013. He shoved in the pocket of his coat, deciding to have his concern on Molly for now.

He led her out of the flat, down the stairs, and out into the London night. It had grown dark since they first left his flat, and after visiting this murder is was a bit menacing for the detective and the pathologist. He hailed a cab and they both climbed in. Sherlock gave the address to Molly's flat, and they were both quiet before Molly spoke up. "They look like me." Her voice was soft and she didn't look at him, instead opting to stare out the window. He looked over at her, frowning slightly. Over the weeks, he saw that she had been sad, and he didn't know how to fix it. There was only so much he could do with dinner and games and solving cases. He didn't know how to comfort people.

"I know," he whispered and when they got there he asked the cabbie to wait and then stepped out. She started walking to her flat, muttering a goodnight, but he stopped her by grabbing her elbow and turned her towards him. "You're wondering why they look like you. Molly, I don't know why those people look like you and I wish I did. If anything it makes me want to solve this case faster."

"Is someone using me?" she asked.

"Molly, don't wor…"

"No, Sherlock. Tell me. Is someone using me to get to you?"

He sighed, going through it in his head again. "Maybe. I'm not sure. But it seems like a coincidence. And the universe is rarely so lazy." He just watched her then as she put her head down, staring at her trainers and the wet pavement.

"I can tell that you're worried, too. I thought we were done with this. I thought this was over." Her voice broke and he could feel something inside of him breaking as well. She still hadn't looked up at him but he could tell that she was on the verge of tears. Part of him wanted to get in the cab and drive away. But the other part, the one he was learning to listen to more, walked over to her. He stood just in front of her and tentatively wrapped his arms around her shoulders and then pulled her a bit closer. For a few seconds, they both stood there stiffly. But, soon he relaxed and pulled her tighter to him. She wrapped her arms around his torso and leaned her head against his chest, grateful for the comfort that he was providing.

She briefly wondered what had come over him, but decided to just enjoy the fact that Sherlock currently had his arms around her, that he was holding her, and that it made her feel a lot better. And he realized that he enjoyed it, too. He felt himself calming down, the fear subsiding a little bit as he held onto her.

"I thought it was over, too," he whispered into her hair, now letting his words flow freely. "And I don't know what to do right know. But, just know that I won't let anything happen to you. You are safe, Molly Hooper."

* * *

The thirty something year old killer finished dragging the girl out when his phone began to buzz. "I'm almost done," he said quietly, not wanting to be heard by any other tenants.

"This is taking too long," came an angry voice from the other side of the line. The man stared down at the body and took out a knife, preparing himself to begin the toilsome task of cutting the girl.

"This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. It's going to take time." He was now on his knees between the girl's legs, making sure to count carefully.

"Who would have ever guessed that a little pathologist from St. Bart's could mess up everything. I guess in the end, we all under estimated Molly Hooper."

"So you think this is going to work?" said the killer. He stood up to admire his work before carefully backing out of the room. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to kill someone without leaving any evidence, how every move had to be calculated exactly. He had done it before and he would do it again. And he hated Molly Hooper for throwing a cog in this network.

"Of course it is going to work," said the voice. "And she can't mess it up this time. Oh, no. Sherlock Holmes is about to burn."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So I'm going on a trip which means I won't be able to update until at least Monday, which I'm upset about. I'm sorry I have to leave you with this chapter as it doesn't have very much in it at all. I'm trying to develop Sherlock's character slowly when it comes to dealing with Molly. Please let me know if I'm doing okay and stay tuned because next week will bring a new tenant to Baker Street, mind games with Sherlock, and a face from the past. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I love you all!—thefaultoflegend**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was never one for sentiment, everyone knew that about him. However, ever since he almost lost his younger brother, something had changed in the man who was one so cold when it came to others. He paid more attention to emotion. He questioned why people felt a certain way. So, when Sherlock made a frantic phone call to his brother late at night, requesting the protection of a young pathologist from St. Bart's, he had to wonder why his brother's voice sounded so alarmed.

"Is there something I should know about, Brother?" he asked him. The elder Holmes still checked up on his brother quite often, and he knew that he was currently working on a case, but he didn't see how it could cause him any harm. Or why it would have anything to do with Molly Hooper.

Sherlock was in his too-quiet, Molly-less, and John-less flat, pacing about and thinking about his case. He had decided to call Mycroft as soon as he arrived at 221B. He knew that the case could have absolutely nothing to do with him or Molly, but Sherlock had learned that he could never be too careful. "I'm working on a case," he told his brother now. "It's a serial killing and there have been two murders so far. Both bodies have looked like Molly Hooper."

"And you're worried about her?"

"Well…I am concerned for her and I think we would both feel much better if someone was watching over her." Now Mycroft did not know anything about his brother's heart. He once told John that his brother could be a scientist or a philosopher, but neither of them knew what they could deduce about his heart. But this was the same man who as a little boy, wanted to be a pirate. It was the same man who had probably delivered the greatest best man speech of all time. It was the same man who got rid of any love interest of his friends that wasn't good enough for them. That was why he deduced so many of John's girlfriends and Molly's boyfriends after all. He never wanted his friends to get hurt. The truth was that past the hard act and the rigid exterior when it came to matters of the heart, Sherlock Holmes was as much as a romantic as John. Which is why his resolve for Molly Hooper was slowly breaking. It was what his brother heard in his voice as he asked him to guard his friend. And Mycroft Holmes knew that caring was a chemical defect of the losing side. He knew that having goldfish was never an advantage. But this was true in every case except for his brother's. His transformation from when John came into his life was remarkable. He was easier to deal with and his drug problem had almost completely disappeared. And then with Molly, Mycroft didn't know her very well but if Sherlock was calling, not texting, him about keeping her safe, then he knew that she was important to his little brother.

"What about you?" asked Mycroft.

"Excuse me?" said Sherlock, and he stopped pacing across his flat.

"Why don't you protect her?" There was silence between the two as Sherlock absorbed this notion. "As I remember it, Brother, this is the same girl who protected you for those years when you were dead. The same one who saved your life once. If it weren't for Molly Hooper, you wouldn't be here. It seems as if you have the perfect opportunity to pay it forward." Sherlock still didn't say anything as his mind sped up.

_Molly Hooper moving in with me? Of course it would only be temporary, and for no other reason than to keep her safe until this case passes over. Even if we're not being targeted, she still fits the profile for the victim. I've lived with her before, for a few days at a time and it wasn't horrible. _

But who was he trying to kid? He liked staying with Molly during the two years that he was 'dead.' She had been like a small light in those dark times, when he couldn't see his best friend, could never listen to Mrs. Hudson's ramblings, never work on cases with Greg. She would always welcome him in, no matter what state he was in. Sometimes he would fill her in on the dismantling of Moriarty's network. She would tell him of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Times were tense then, between the two of them, but he knew they would be much different now.

He also knew that lately, when he left Molly's flat or Molly left his, he felt almost…empty. He supposed he had felt empty his entire life, with blocking out feelings and emotion. But Molly Hooper made it noticeable. And he reasoned that it was because he felt when he was with her. He felt light and even happy. Which were the emotions he liked. But now came the worry, which he didn't like. But he was learning that the good outweighed the bad and that maybe he should reconsider the prospect of becoming involved with Molly

When Mycroft didn't hear from his brother for a few minutes, he spoke up. "I will provide safeguarding to Molly Hooper. But I think you should still consider what I said."

"I will. I am." And then after another beat. "Thank you, Mycroft."

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock woke to find John sitting in his chair, typing away on his laptop. "What are you doing here?" asked the detective grumpily as he poured himself some tea that he guessed Mrs. Hudson laid out earlier.

"Well good morning to you, too," replied John as he shot Sherlock a look. The detective was now curled up in his chair with his dressing gown wrapped tightly around him. "And what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," replied Sherlock. "Why are you here?" Sherlock went through the deductions in his head. _Baggy eyes, lack of sleep. Holding head stiffly, slept in an awkward position. Unshaven and hair unbrushed, rush to leave. Slept on the couch. Someone's in trouble._

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and then shut his laptop. "Have you ever been around any pregnant women? Like severely pregnant women?" John asked.

"No. I try to avoid them. Hence my current aversion to Mary."

"Yes, well you're smart," said John.

"I know," replied Sherlock smartly. John just rolled his eyes and continued.

"I didn't think anybody's moods could change this fast. Well aside from yours of course. I can't do anything right lately. I really think Mary is going insane. I went to do the dishes last night and she started crying because I didn't want to spend any time with her. So I went and watched telly with her and she started screaming because I wasn't helping her around the house. I'm afraid I'm not going to wake up one morning."

"Well she is a trained assassin," mumbled the curled up body.

"Yes, don't remind me." They sat there in silence for a bit, John enjoying the quietness of the flat, and Sherlock retreating into his mind palace. He was organizing, putting all of the information about this case and anything that had to do with Moriarty in a room and then going through it all again, looking for anything that might crossover. He didn't want to jump to conclusions yet, but there was a possibility that he had a friend in danger. He was trying terribly hard to focus but John's sigh cut in.

"You're thinking too loud," he told John.

"Sorry. What are you doing anyway?"

"There was a second murder last night," said Sherlock. He sat up in his chair and leaned forward, holding his hands against is mouth.

"Oh," said John with a quizzical expression. "Why didn't you call me? I could have come out." He felt hurt for some reason. He had spent a lot less time with Sherlock now that Mary was so pregnant, but that didn't mean he liked missing cases.

"Molly was here. I took her," replied Sherlock simply. John smirked at his friend, no longer hurt, and happy that at least he had somebody with him; especially happy that it was Molly. But Sherlock didn't look at all pleased.

"Did something happen?" asked John, now a bit concerned.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. It's a serial killing. More of the same clues that I can't seem to figure out. But the bodies look like her." John took a hard look at his friend and saw fear all over his face.

"She'll be okay, Sherlock."

"I've been thinking…" He trailed off and Sherlock noticed him grow a bit nervous, which was very unusual for his friend. He cleared his throat. "I've been thinking that maybe I should ask her to stay here. Just until this all blows over. It should make her feel safer."

John nodded seriously, knowing that this decision was half to keep Molly safe, and half to keep Sherlock from going insane with worry, even if the detective didn't want to admit that. "If you think that will make her feel safer, then I think that's a good idea." Sherlock just nodded and stood up to play his violin. He was interrupted however by the dinging of his phone and the glare of a screen. Upon looking at it his eyes widened with horror and his bow scraped harshly across the strings of his instrument.

**Hi, Sherlock. Let's play a little game. -M**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Guys! Chapter 10! This is crazy. Thank you so much for everyone who has read and reviewed and thank you for sticking with this story. I think we're about at the half-way point right now and I don't want to speak too soon BUT I may or may not have a sequel in the works. What do you think? I hope you like this chapter. I love you all :) -thefaultoflegend **

His feet fell hard on the pavement, John right behind him trying desperately to match his long strides. London's pedestrians let the pair pass as Sherlock shouted for people to move. The bright day did not match the detective's mood at all as he turned sharply on his feet around the corner, his dark brown curls being pushed off his forehead. He didn't even bother to grab his coat or scarf. When the second text arrived, he just got up and ran, a shouted explanation going to John as he practically jumped down the stairs. He still had his robe on as he ran down the sidewalk and streets, darting between cars and taking detours through alleys.

**How much does Molly Hooper mean to you? Let's find out. -M**

The text included an address that he was now trying to reach. His mind was in a panic because Mycroft said he would protect her. He promised and now she was in danger. His pathologist, one his best friends, could be hurt and it was all because of him. And he couldn't even do anything about it. It was too late to pull away from Molly Hooper. Whoever this murderer was, they already knew how much she meant to him, maybe even more than he knew. And if he was being honest with himself, there was no way he could pull away from her, not when they had gotten so much closer over the course of the few previous weeks. And yes, she had changed him. He had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle that included Molly Hooper. And even if that lifestyle meant eating and sleeping regularly plus keeping the flat clean and occasionally feeling real emotion, he wasn't ready to give it up.

His breathing sped up, his heart beating faster as he neared the tall building where "M" had sent him. The name Moriarty only flashed through his mind briefly because all he could think was Molly Molly Molly Molly Molly.

Sherlock came to a skidding halt, with John almost smacking into his back. The detective and the doctor stood there panting and trying to catch their breath. "It's here," said Sherlock. He checked his phone again as John put his hands on his head and glared into the sun. "Why are we here? There's nothing here."

The building that they were at was a simple coffee shop. Sherlock peered in at the people who were milling about, drinking their coffee, reading books, or just chatting. Molly was no where to be seen and nothing was out of the ordinary. He thought of what it could mean. Why would M send him there? The shop was probably a place where Molly would go, but she obviously wasn't there now.

**Confused, Sherlock? Scared? Maybe we should try somewhere else. -M**

There was another address and the detective took off again, his robe blowing in the wind. John didn't chase after him this time. He simply shouted, "Sherlock!" But the detective was already on his way. This time, he was angry. If this was Moriarty, he wouldn't let him get away again. He had hurt and threatened his friends enough. Sherlock had already killed Magnussen and he wouldn't hesitate to put a gun to Moriarty's head. His thoughts stopped suddenly and rewound wondering what he had become. Was he really the type who would kill men without a second thought? No, of course not. But the line between being a hero and being a villain was a fine one. Sherlock knew that he wasn't a hero; he could never be a hero. But being a villain didn't suit him either. So where did he stand?

He stopped in front of a bookstore, beginning to think that this was a decoy. What if this was simply a distraction? But a ding from his pocket made his heart leap through his chest.

**Try again. St. Barts. –M**

He didn't even stop to catch his breath; he just took off while messily sending a text to John.

**Sr Bars. Nw –SG**

He got to the hospital and ran immediately to the lab, pushing the doors open hard and stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Molly Hooper standing there, completely unharmed and okay. He bent over and gasped for breath as Molly stared at him, completely confused.

"Sherlock?" she asked. He didn't say anything, just stood up and stared right at her. She looked to be in the middle of running a few tests. He noticed bags under her eyes, her messy hair, and her slumped over shoulders, and knew that she probably didn't get any sleep last night. She took in his rumpled appearance, wondering why he would be in pajamas. His eyes were wide with relief it seemed, although she had no idea why. There was something else there, too. She thought she had recognized the look from maybe the way John looked at Mary, or maybe the way Molly herself looked at Sherlock. But she knew it would be impossible.

"Sherlock? What do you need?" He was silent still. When she had asked him that question before, he had been in much the same position he was now. He was scared and didn't know where to turn and the only person who seemed to make any of it better was Molly Hooper. And the answer to the question was still the same, even if this time he couldn't bring himself to get the word out. So instead, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her tightly. He breathed in her scent of vanilla and various chemicals and felt okay again, even if his entire world was about to be turned upside down by the world's only consulting criminal. And as he pulled her closer the word that he wanted to say but couldn't ran through his head. _You._

When John Watson finally stormed into the lab, he expected the scene to be frantic and tense. He expected to see his friends in danger, so what he got was expressed as a giant sigh of relief. He watched as Sherlock tightened his grip on Molly and tried to get his breathing to regulate. Molly stood stiffly against him with a confused expression on her face and her still gloved hands sticking up in the hair behind Sherlock's back, trying not to touch his robe. She slowly took off the gloves and threw them on the lab desk, then wrapped her arms around Sherlock and squeezed back. She had no idea what was going on and Sherlock was definitely not acting like himself but he was holding her unlike he ever had before and she knew that it must have been pretty bad for him to do it. Plus, it made her feel instantly better after a night of worrying and although she knew that sometimes being around Sherlock could be dangerous, he made her feel safe in that moment.

"You're okay," he whispered, his breath short and his voice low. John backed out of the room, giving the pair some space.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" she asked as he tightened his grip even further before taking a big breath, as if to prepare himself, and let go of her. The sudden coldness and lack of pressure was unsettling for him, and he wanted nothing more than to just go back to hugging Molly. He had never felt like that before and the thought accompanied with the lack of sleep, loss of breath, and racing mind made him start to feel off-balance and distant. But he at least knew what he had to do now.

"You will be staying at Baker Street until I solve this case," he said to her. He didn't want to tell her about the texts; he didn't want to scare her even more.

"You don't have to do that," she replied.

"Nonsense. It's really no trouble at all. I will pick you up when you get off." He took one last look at her before turning on his heel and walking out.

"Wait!" she shouted after him. "Where are you going?"

"To your flat of course. To pack," he called over his shoulder and walked out. John was waiting for him outside.

"Can you stay with her?" Sherlock asked his friend.

"When you tell me what the hell is going on," stated John while crossing his arms over his chest.

"I think it's Moriarty. I really don't have any more information than that. I'm going to her flat to pack up her things to take to Baker Street and I need you to stay with her because I don't know what he has planned and I don't know if she's in danger and I know Mycroft has her protected but I just don't want her to be alone and I trust you." Sherlock was pacing back and forth as he talked and John still saw the distress in his friends face.

"Yes. Okay. I'll stay here until you get back." Sherlock nodded and began to walk off.

"Thank you," he said softly to John, thinking that he had never said the phrase so much in his whole life, and wondering what on earth was happening to him.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I don't know if I've done a disclaimer in a while so I don't own Sherlock in any way shape or form. But if I did this is what would happen. Thanks for reading and reviewing!-thefaultoflegend**

* * *

He arrived at her flat and for the first time since that morning he was able to take a real, stable breath. The last time he was that terrified was when John was in that fire. He wouldn't wish what he was feeling on anyone. As he leaned against the inside of Molly's door, her cat came and startled circling his ankles. "Hi, Toby," he said and liked the fact that he could call him by his real name. When he used Molly's place as a bolt hole or even when he just came over he would think up the most ridiculous names for the cat, just to get a look and a little yell from Molly. _Sounds like flirting to me _said a voice in his head that sounded like John's. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and continued on.

He gathered some of Molly's clothes, finding amusement in her animal covered pajama bottoms and her mismatched socks. In any other person he would have found it ridiculous, but it suited Molly so well. He picked up her phone charger and found the cat carrier in the back of her closet. He lured Toby in with a little piece of meat. He next went into the bathroom, grabbing anything she might need from there. Books were the next thing on the list. Sherlock knew that Molly loved to read. He went to her bookshelf and picked out a few of her favorites including some Harry Potter, a few mystery books, and some of those absurd romance novels she liked. Sherlock went to her DVD collection and picked out a few that he could tolerate and then threw in a few Disney movies, knowing how much she liked those, too.

When he was done, he sat down on the couch and wondered how he came to befriend this woman who seemed so vastly different from him. He should have scoffed at romance novels and Disney movies and multi-colored striped sweaters and cuddling with a cat. Instead he loved them. _Love them? _Yes, he loved them because they were everything that reminded him of Molly. They were warmth and happiness and sunshine and it was such a nice contrast for him. He flew to it like he would a murder scene. He didn't know that he needed that in his life before Molly showed up.

He walked over to a wall in her flat where she pinned pictures of her and her friends. There were a few of Sherlock and Molly together and they drew his attention right away. There was one from that horrible Christmas party, one from John's wedding, a few from other various parties they both attended but one of them stuck out from all the rest. It was the most recent, taken after he came back after killing Magnussen. Sherlock, Molly, John, and Mary went out to see a show, much to Sherlock's dismay. He didn't want to go but he was bored and John convinced him to go. Thinking back, Sherlock realized the only reason he went was because Molly was going, too. After the show, the group got hot chocolate and took a walk through the park. The picture showed Sherlock and Molly looking at each other and laughing about something that he didn't even remember now. But he knew that he definitely looked happy. And so did Molly, with her cheeks and the tip of her nose red from the cold. As he stared at the picture, a huge smile crept over his face.

Sharing his feelings and being sentimental was all new to him. He didn't know the first thing about being in a relationship with someone. Physical affection was a completely foreign territory for him. He would make the most horrible romantic partner. All of those things Sherlock were what was certain of. But the thing he was now certain of the most that was that he was in love with Molly Hooper and all of her little quirks. He wasn't sure what to do with the new realization, but in that moment, just having it was good enough for him.

That evening, after he had picked Molly up from work and took her back to his flat, they sat across from each other, Sherlock staring at Molly and Molly staring at the fire she insisted on starting. He was thinking, a million thoughts running through his head, seeming like even more than usual. And they were jumping. They switched from Moriarty to the murdered girls to the woman who was now sitting in front of him. He tried to tear his eyes away from the pathologist, but he couldn't seem to do it.

He watched as the light from the fire illuminated her entire face and created warmth around her and he was reminded of how full the flat felt when she was around, how the cold and emptiness just disappeared with the mere presence of her. Watching her, Sherlock was hit with an overwhelming sense of something that he could only call love. _I love Molly Hooper. _The thought came so easily to him and he wondered why he hadn't thought it before.

She could tell that he was in his mind palace but her thoughts nagged her and forced her to speak up. "Sherlock?" she asked quietly. "Why… why are you staring at me?"

She stuttered and stumbled through the question and Sherlock hadn't heard her talk like that since before the fall. He smirked slightly, finding it endearing and reminding him of just how far the two of them had come. And if he was honest, he almost told her exactly why he was staring at her. He almost said that he had a realization today that he was in love with her. He was close to telling her that he owed his life to her and that he was so sorry for putting her in danger. He nearly admitted that he was afraid to look away because he was afraid that she would disappear or be taken by Moriarty or one of his men. And he couldn't have that. But of course, he was nervous to say it. He had been getting nervous around her more and more lately. And he thought that she was over him by now. He thought he had missed his chance. "Sherlock?" she said again when he didn't answer her question.

"Sorry. I wasn't staring. Well I was, but I was in my mind palace," he lied and took a look at Molly Hooper before forcing himself to close his eyes and think about how to save her. He could worry about his feelings later. She sighed and turned back to the fire. She thought that something might have changed in his feelings for her after what happened that day. He seemed so sincere the night before and in the lab that day. She got two hugs from Sherlock Holmes in less than twenty-four hours. That had to be a record for the consulting detective. But, she supposed she was wrong.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked. He didn't open his eyes but she could tell he heard her from the way he picked up his head and raised his eyebrows. She tucked her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees, suddenly feeling vulnerable. And she had every right to. She was staying with Sherlock in his flat in his bed. With him on the couch, of course. He turned John's old room into a lab room and claimed it was completely unsuitable for sleeping. She cleared her voice and spoke again. "Sherlock, tell me."

He had barely said a word to her ever since he picked her up from Bart's and took her to his place with her clothes, necessities, and even her can already sitting in his room. His eyes opened now and he gave the woman across from him his full attention. "No. I'm not going to tell you." His eyes fell shut again as Molly sighed loudly and he resisted the urge to look at her. She sat there for a minute knowing that if he wasn't telling her then it was bad. Really bad. She couldn't deny the fact that in the past few days his face had been laid with worry. His eyes were afraid and he was on edge. She stood up and pulled her chair forward to right in front of his. When she sat down, their knees were almost touching and she kicked him lightly so that he would open his eyes.

He was immediately aware of her presence and he instantly remembered the way it felt to hold on to Molly Hooper. She was suddenly like a drug to him. He had a little bit of what she could offer him and he wanted more. All of this was going on inside of his head, but his face remained passive. "What are you doing?" he asked her.

"I'm not John, okay? I'm me. I know when you're really worried or scared or when you need help. I know when you're holding something back. Just tell me, Sherlock. Maybe I can help. You know I'd help you with anything." She said the words with sincerity, leaning forward to look him straight in the eyes. He didn't say anything and instead just stared back at her.

"Tell me," she said and tentatively reached over to grab his hand. He slowly squeezed back. He was now unable to look at Molly Hooper given their extreme proximity. He hoped that she wasn't like him, that she wouldn't try to take his pulse because it was racing right now and surely she would catch on to how he felt. He cursed himself. He was supposed to be working on a case. Not holding hands with Molly Hooper and thinking about her nonstop. She was such a distraction. He needed to think. Moriarty's back. He is; Sherlock felt almost certain of it. He strongly believed that that it was a mistake to make a judgment before he had all of the evidence but he could just feel it in the way this case was unfolding. It wasn't someone just playing a trick on him. This was the real deal. His eyes darted around his flat before settling on his and Molly's clasped hands.

"I watched him die. I saw it." His voice shook as he spoke but Molly could tell he was trying to keep it together.

"Watched who die?"

"Him. Moriarty. I watched him stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. I watched. And now he's back. How is he back?" He leaned forward now, too. He still kept his eyes on their hands.

"John watched you jump off a building and look where we are now." He nodded slowly. "You're not crazy. It just might be that he, like you, had a plan."

"Mine was better," he whispered while squeezing her hand. She was suddenly glad that he was looking down as a blush began to slowly creep up her cheeks. "I'm lost, Molly Hooper. It feels like last time. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Nothing makes sense. This case isn't leading me anywhere and he's following me. Which means his network is back up and I don't even know how to start to dismantle it again. And then there's you…" he trailed off.

"I'm fine," she stated. "Don't worry about me. I won't let him hurt me anymore."

"That's not what I meant." He spoke so quietly that she almost didn't hear him and her brows furrowed in confusion. She wanted to ask what he did mean but he kept plowing on. "I just… it's his entire network against me. I've never been so unsure in my whole life. These feelings are new." He blew out a breath and went to sit back but she pulled his hand and he said towards her again.

"You weren't alone last time, Sherlock. And you won't be alone this time either." He finally made eye contact with her and when she looked into his eyes she watched as slowly, his pupils grew larger and his eyes softer. She knew the physiological reactions to seeing someone who a person likes. She also knew that widening pupils was a fear response. However, the way Sherlock was looking at her now wasn't with fear.

"I feel like I need to apologize to you Molly Hooper. For so many things but especially for getting you into this mess. I will never forgive myself for that."

"I'm the one who dated him," she joked, their eyes never wavering from each other.

"You do have a horrible taste in men," he teased back. And Molly knew that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Because her having a horrible taste in men meant that he was horrible, which wasn't true. Yes, maybe before Sherlock was just a great man. But now, he was a good man. She truly believed that and she was sad that he didn't. And maybe more sad that he didn't see that she still loved him.

"Then maybe, Sherlock Holmes, you have been seeing and not observing." She leaned forward and heard Sherlock's breathing pick up. He was quite convinced that he was about to kiss Molly Hooper and he may have stopped himself if his thoughts hadn't been completely halted by the feel of Molly's hand in his or her smell again or the fact that his hand reached up of its own accord to brush a strand of hair away from her face. He moved in slowly and could feel her breath on his face. And just before their lips were about to meet, his phone rang.

Never in his life had Sherlock hated an unanimated object more. He had the strong urge to pin it up against the wall and shoot it to pieces as Molly was now sitting back in her chair, her hand suddenly leaving his. Her eyes were everywhere but on him, her arms crossed over her chest and her cheeks flushed. It didn't take a genius like to him to know how she was feeling. The second ring of the phone startled him from staring at her and he stood up to get it.

"What?" he demanded harshly, but quietly into the receiver. "What could you possibly need from me?"

"We found another body," came the voice of Lestrade. "But it's different this time. You need to get down here. Now." There was an urgency in his voice and the consulting detective suddenly feared what he would find at the scene. Sherlock looked over at Molly who went back to her little ball on her chair. He didn't want to leave her but he knew to keep her safe, he had to go and figure this out.

"Fine," he mumbled into the phone. Lestrade gave him the address and he hung up.

"Everything okay?" asked Molly timidly. She sounded so small and he wanted to rewind the last minute if it meant that she could be as confident as she just was.

"Fine," he said. "Everything is fine I just have to help Gavin with something."

"Greg," she corrected. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and stop thinking about the fact that he just almost kissed Molly Hooper. "I know when you're lying," she pointed out.

"I know," he replied but didn't elaborate. "Mrs. Hudson is here and Mycroft has this place covered so you should be fine. I checked for any bugs or cameras last night." He began to tie his scarf around his neck and put his coat on. She nodded softly and turned back to the fire. He sighed and walked over to her, leaning down to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry, Molly," he said and kissed her softly on the check, committing the feeling to memory. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them, he was already halfway to the door.

"Hey," she called after him. "Get rid of this guy. For good." Any trepidation he just experienced vanished because he would do it. He would do anything for her. He gave her a smile and a wave before he was out the door.


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry this chapter took so long but it's been a crazy Friday/ Saturday with my pep band traveling to play at my university's hockey games. If this chapter is not up to par it's because it was typed on a noisy bus/in a hotel lobby at 2 am while I watched all the drunks stumble around, and edited at 3 am. And nothing good ever happens after 2, so there's that. Let me know what you think. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**

Sherlock texted John, hoping that he would meet him at the scene. His mind was still reeling from his encounter with Molly, but on the cab ride over, he tried hard to get focus in on the whole murder situation. He couldn't begin to imagine what Lestrade found at the scene and he had no idea what he was getting himself into that night. And he hated not knowing. John met him outside, a glowing cell phone sitting in his hand. He looked nervous, fidgeting around and his eyes straying from his phone to the surrounding streets. "John," said Sherlock as he approached him.

"Sherlock," said John and they proceeded to go into the flat, past all of the police and the yellow tape. Sherlock climbed the stairs and felt as if he had to brace himself for what was inside. He knew that he'd find a girl who looked like Molly. He knew that he'd find her arms cut up and a piece of paper in her pocket, detailing a date of something he didn't know. He had done it twice and it had gotten worse each time he looked at the women.

John looked at the consulting detective who was stopped just outside the doorway. "Are you okay?" he asked him, noticing the worried look in his eyes and the pained expression. Sherlock sighed and stared straight ahead, not looking his friend in the eyes. He wasn't okay. This case was affecting him unlike any case ever had before.

"I almost kissed Molly Hooper tonight," he said. "And now I have to go inside and see a dead body on the ground that looks like her." John stood there in shock for a second before realizing that his friend was actually upset.

"What do you mean you almost kissed her?"

"I mean we were about to kiss, John. What did it sound like?" said Sherlock, with a hint of anger tracing his voice, although he wasn't sure why. He supposed he was becoming defensive, though he didn't want to be. It was like a knee-jerk reflex, something he couldn't control. He honestly didn't know why he told John in the first place. It just came out as if he had no control over the filter from his brain to his mouth. A lot of what he was doing didn't make sense to him lately.

"Why didn't you?" John asked quietly. They watched as men in blue suits started moving in and out of the room.

"Lestrade called. My phone rang. We got interrupted." He shrugged as if it was nothing, as if almost kissing Molly Hooper and being interrupted when almost kissing Molly Hooper was nothing, but John saw past that.

"You'll get another chance," he said to his friend and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock was about to say that he didn't want one. He was about to call John stupid for thinking that he would actually want to kiss Molly Hooper but he realized that his barriers were breaking. The emotional wall that he spent so many years trying to build was coming down, even if it was only a little bit, and it was all because of Molly Hooper.

"I won't have another chance unless we figure this out," he said instead and he walked into the room.

They were greeted with a familiar sight, with the girl laid out on the hardwood floor of the flat. Sherlock tried his best not to even look at her, worrying that he would quickly lose his focus and his thoughts would drift to another brunette who was probably currently sitting in front of his fire place. But something was different; Lestrade was right. In the sitting area were a television set and a DVD player. The telly had a blank sheet of white paper on it with some of the paper torn off at the bottom. Sherlock knew that if he looked into the girl's pocket, he would find the strip with a date written on it, but that wasn't what concerned him. What bothered him was what was written on the paper on the telly.

**Play Me**

"We wanted to wait until you get here, since you seem to think this is all for you," said Lestrade when Sherlock walked over to the television set. He ignored Lestrade completely, not even giving a glance in his direction. "What's wrong with him?" the detective inspector asked John as he eyed Sherlock.

"He may be a bit mad at you right now. I'll explain later," replied John.

"You will not explain," said Sherlock while sending a death-glare to his friend. In any other situation John would have smirked, maybe even chuckled. But the mood of the apartment was sullen with even Anderson being on edge. Because they all knew. They all knew who was back. They could feel it in the air, in the tension all around them. London was different somehow when his presence was made known. It was darker, more sinister, and it was time to put an end to the darkness that was Moriarty. Sherlock picked up the remote from the small coffee table beside the couch and pressed play.

The screen was dark, just pitch black until all of the sudden it lit up with a scene that seemed oddly familiar to Sherlock. It looked over the tops of the buildings of London, the sky gray and the wind blowing around various pieces of trash and leaves. The scene moved slightly and Sherlock knew where he had seen that rooftop. The picture zoomed in to two men standing there, facing each other, having an intense conversation. There was no sound at all, just the video of these two men. The one with the curly hair looked around, and Sherlock could see his mind working as he stood there. The other one chuckled at something he was saying. And then suddenly the other man stuck a gun in his mouth. The video-Sherlock looked shocked and then spun around to look out over the top of the building.

"He never pulled the trigger," said Sherlock now, with eyes staring intently at the screen.

"He what?" said John in surprise. Sherlock had told him a bit of what had happened on that rooftop, so he knew that Sherlock watched Moriarty shoot himself before he jumped.

"He didn't do it. There must have been a different bang that wasn't the gun. The blood would have been easy to fake. I wasn't paying enough attention. I was just seeing." He looked back to the screen in time to see words pop up.

**Are you ready to chat? You know where to find me.**

John saw the message and shared a knowing look with Sherlock before they both took off down the stairs and outside into the London night. They hailed a cab and Sherlock gave the cabbie the address, telling him to hurry up. Sherlock tried his best to retreat to his mind palace on the ride over, but the video he just saw kept intruding. So he brought it to the forefront of his mind and looked for any details that he needed, making sure to catalogue them in Moriarty's room in his mind palace.

He saw again how they talked, their faces so close and their words so intense. He remembered the calculations that were going through his head, of how he was going to get out of that one. He then saw Moriarty stick the gun in his mouth, so fast. So fast that it took Sherlock what seemed like forever to catch on to what was happening. That's why it worked, because it was so fast. A calculating detective, a quick movement of the wrist, and a well- timed bang was all it took for Moriarty to pull off his own faked death. It was like a magic trick. Sherlock had to say though, that it was a lot less clever and complex than his own method. But still, he cursed himself for being so stupid, for thinking that what he saw was what actually happened. He should have taken more time to observe and then he would be safe. John would be safe. His Molly would be safe.

They arrived at the pool, walking in slowly and carefully and checking the area for any signs of little red dots from the guns that were there last time. John had brought his gun along with him and he was sure to have it ready, in case of an attack. Sherlock was starting to think that nobody was there to greet them when a booming voice bounced off of the dark, shimmering walls.

"Hello, Sherlock. Long time no see." The voice of Moriarty made chills run up and down Sherlock's spine. He just wanted this whole thing to be over. He spun in a circle, looking for any sign of the consulting criminal, but there was none. If there was one thing about Moriarty it was that he knew how to cover his tracks.

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded, the words coming out thick and seething between his clenched teeth. John stood by his friend, his gun ready and waiting, knowing that he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through Moriarty's head.

"That doesn't matter right now," came the voice. "What matters is that you have yet to solve my puzzle."

"What puzzle? What puzzle is there?" The detective screamed more than he spoke, his frustration ever-growing the longer he stayed there. "I know that you didn't die. A clever trick, I'll admit. But look at us here. I bet you didn't expect me to have a clever trick either." Sherlock paced around the pool, still searching.

"Yes, Molly Hooper was unfortunately overlooked. But she isn't now, I assure you." The voice laughed sinisterly.

"You leave her out of this," said Sherlock. "I don't know why you're using her but leave her alone."

"Defensive, are we? What's wrong, Sherlock? What happened to the man who didn't let feelings get in the way? I see a lot has changed since our last meeting. Well nothing at all really, just a new pawn in the game. Have you kissed her yet, Sherlock?"

"What do you want? Just tell me what you want!" screamed the consulting detective. He was fuming by this point. But he didn't know if he was madder at himself or Moriarty. He hated that he let his sentiment get in the way because it is the single thing that led him here. Moriarty never would have been able to take him down if he hadn't gotten attached to Lestrade, John, or Mrs. Hudson. And then Molly. He wouldn't change anything, oh no. It had all worked out for him so far. But life seemed a lot easier without it all. But also a lot harder in ways. It was all so confusing to him, something he couldn't break up into pieces and store in carefully crafted filed and books in his mind. He hated himself the most for not noticing the most obvious, for not focusing that day on the roof. He hated Moriarty and the fact that Sherlock couldn't sleep at night or think straight when he was around. And he loathed that he was using his friends to get to him.

"This is what I want. This, Sherlock. To slowly watch you unravel. For you to see your life crumbling around you. Is it working? Is walking in on a corpse that looks like your precious pathologist unsettling? Is not being able to solve this case troubling? Then, good!" He screamed the last words and they echoed off of the walls. "Time, Sherlock. That's what it will take. Don't even try to solve this one. Don't try to find me. I'm sure you already figured out I'm not actually here right now. So I'll just sit back and wait and watch you go mad. Have a nice evening with Ms. Hooper." The voice stopped and Sherlock stood there his breathing fast, his heart racing, his teeth clenched in anger. He walked over to the pool wall, suddenly punching it, and then pulling back to look at a bloody fist.

"Stop," said John suddenly, and he stood in front of him. "Just stop. This is how he wants you to feel." Sherlock didn't say anything. He just took a look at John and stormed out. They got in a cab and John did his best to wrap Sherlock's hand with his scarf, trying to stop the bleeding. "Just calm down," said John as Sherlock stared out the window. "Go back to Molly, sit with her, and calm down. She's safe for now."

"For now, John. For now. But what happens when it is no longer 'for now?'" John took a long, hard look in his friend and saw something in his eyes that surprised him. It was a mix of fear and anger but also love, something that John never thought he'd see.

"Sherlock, she has you, me, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson protecting her. That's the best protection in the entire world. Look, Moriarty wants you to isolate yourself. He wants you to feel like you're alone and confused. So you need to show him that this isn't going to break you. Until we can figure this all out, you need to just calm down." Sherlock nodded his head as they pulled up to the curb beside his flat. Sherlock and John said their goodbyes and Sherlock climbed the stairs. '

He stopped before opening the door, hoping that Molly was asleep. He didn't know how people acted after they almost kissed. He didn't know what to say to her or what to do. He mostly just wanted to go back to hugging her, so he knew that she was real and that she was okay. But, when he entered the flat he immediately saw that the telly was on and a sleeping Molly lay curled up on the couch. Any tension he had previously had vanished at the sight of her small frame taking deep breaths and slumbering peacefully. He sat down by her head and leaned back while grabbing the remote and turning the telly off. She woke up with a start.

"It's okay. It's just me," he said and she settled back down to her previous position. She took in his scent and the warmth radiating from his body.

"Are you bleeding?" she asked suddenly. He smirked. He should have known that she would pick up on that right away.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Why?"

"I punched a wall." She seemed to find this funny in her half-asleep state and Sherlock could feel the couch shake as she laughed

"You punched a wall." He stared at her through the dark, trying to make out her brown eyes. "Why did you punch a wall?" Molly was glad that he was back. She was trying to wait up for him, but sleep got the best of her and she ended up passing out about an hour after he left.

"I was angry. It's not important," whispered Sherlock now. "I'm fine," he said. "You should go to bed. Take my room." She debated getting up but she felt so comfortable with him sitting there beside her. She felt safe, which was something that was hard to come by lately unless she was with Sherlock.

"I'm not moving," she declared.

"Me either," he said and she couldn't help but smile. After their almost-kiss, her head was spinning. She realized that his feelings had changed and it was something she couldn't wrap her mind around. Molly turned her head up and stared at him for a minute. He caught her eyes and still couldn't get over what she saw in them. He looked away so she turned back around and lay back on the couch.

"I would ask you what happened but I feel like I'm too tired to listen," she whispered to him.

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow. You get some sleep, Molly Hooper." Sherlock thought of what John would do in this situation and decided that grabbing a nearby blanket and carefully laying it over Molly was a good decision. When he did it she sighed happily and wrapped it further around her.

"Good night, Sherlock," she murmured and reached a hand up to grab his uninjured one.

"Good night, Molly." He squeezed her hand back and although he planned to not sleep and spend some time in his mind palace, he soon found himself slowly drifting off beside Molly and thinking that it was something he could get used to.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I really like this chapter and I hope you will, too. Thanks for reading and reviewing!-thefaultoflegend**

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Sherlock went to work with Molly the next day, his mind still trying to digest everything that happened the day before, but he felt a little bit better and a lot less tired. He realized that falling asleep beside Molly had provided the best sleep he'd had in months. He wasn't sure if it was because he was completely exhausted or if it was because she was there beside him.

That morning, when he woke to find his hand still in hers and her still sleeping soundly beside him, the sunlight pouring through his curtains, he realized that furthering his relationship with Molly could actually be something he would enjoy. A relationship was like an experiment. He could test various variables to see if they worked to make both parties satisfied or not. So far? Holding hands worked, judging by the smile he saw on her face when she woke up and squeezed his hand, and he enjoyed it, too. Laying a blanket over her worked. Almost kissing worked, at least he thought so. For him it did anyway. That one could need further experimenting, which he definitely didn't mind doing. For right now, Molly Hooper was an experiment that he would gladly take on.

When they got to lab and Molly got to work, leaving Sherlock to his own devices, his mind started to retreat inward, thinking about Moriarty. He had to play his game for right now. He had to wait and be patient, something that was hard for him to do but Moriarty knew that. And the consulting criminal was using it to his advantage.

Molly, in the meantime, went to the morgue and got to work on the body from the murder the night before. Usually she didn't have any trouble doing her work, but when working on someone who looked like her, someone who was purposely meant to look like her, she had a little bit of trouble. When she saw three sets of scratches on the girl's arms, she took a deep breath and turned around, trying to steady herself for the rest of the examination and trying to hold back tears.

Her mind had been a horrible place to be lately. She was having trouble thinking clearly, she was afraid, and she wasn't sleeping. The most sleep she had gotten in a week was the few hours with Sherlock on the couch. Moriarty terrified her. The fact that she had dated him, had kissed him, sent shivers down her spine in a horrible way. And now here he was, using her again. She hated that feeling, the feeling of being used. She used to feel that way with Sherlock before the fall. But things were definitely different now. And she knew things were different between them, even if he hadn't said anything.

She finished up the corpse before going back up to the lab. She found Sherlock sitting between the desks on the floor, bouncing a ball off of the cabinets. She went and sat right beside him. He didn't say anything to her; he just reached over and grabbed another ball that he had beside him and handed it to her. She looked at it and laughed softly before starting to bounce her ball in time with his. He smirked and relaxed a bit in her presence.

They sat in silence for a bit, the only sound in the lab being the thud of the bouncing balls. "Does this help you think?" Molly finally asked Sherlock. He caught his ball and held it in his lap, examining it.

"Yes," he replied. "It helps me if I keep a rhythm. It's the next best thing to playing the violin, what I do when I'm not at the flat." He looked over at her and she continued to bounce hers. "Is it helping you?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"So then there must be something wrong. Something that you're thinking about," he stated, but she still wouldn't look at him. He had a strange feeling that this was how she felt for all of those years, him ignoring her. And he hated himself for every time he didn't listen to Molly Hooper.

"How do you do it?" she asked him. "How to you break it all up and store it all away?" She stopped bouncing and looked at him dead on now, he saw a stray tear in her eye. He hated it when she cried.

"You're asking me how I use my mind palace?" She nodded. "I can teach you. It might help." She nodded again and he took a breath, trying to figure out how to explain it to her. The inner workings of his mind were complex, even for him. He didn't even know how to begin to explain it to Molly. "Okay," he said and cleared his throat. "Picture some place that's familiar to you."

"Do I have to do the hand thing?" she asked him. They stared at each other.

"What hand thing?" She smirked and put her hands together, bringing them up to her mouth. He laughed out loud, a rarity for him but Molly could always bring it out.

"You can if you want to," he said through a smile and she laughed, too.

"I'll pass," she said and closed her eyes. He followed suit, the two of them retreating into their minds, but still keeping a foot in each other's presence. "Picturing something familiar."

"Yes. It could be a room or a house or a street. You can start out small and then build on later." They sat in silence for a few moments, as Molly searched her brain for the perfect place to create her own mind palace. She went through childhood homes, her old schools, and even libraries, but none of them felt right. She went through everything that was familiar to her until she finally settled on a place. It wasn't necessarily orthodox, but it was full Molly. And full Sherlock, too. And why shouldn't she pick a place that was the both of them, since much of her life revolved around him? "Where did you pick?" asked Sherlock softly.

"The morgue," she said and couldn't help but giggle. Sherlock laughed back, thinking that if he was going to get romantically involved with anybody, he would definitely want it to be the girl who chose the morgue as the beginnings of her mind palace.

"Okay," he said while still laughing. "Now just pick a topic, anything you want. Pick whatever you're worrying about right now. And focus on it. Pick through all of the details, get rid of the ones that don't matter. But for the ones that do, pick a space in the morgue. Label it with whatever you're thinking about and put all of that information in there. Focus on it all and burn it into your memory. Then move on to something else. Do the same thing. But go back and back sure the first thing is still there. It will take practice, but you'll get it eventually."

She did what he said. She started with little things like memories from her childhood or things about her job. But then she started sorting through all of the Moriarty stuff, storing it away, and it did make her feel better. Everything was more organized and she was able to close doors and drawers on the stuff she didn't want to think about. Then she got to Sherlock, but she struggled to break all of his information up, especially lingering on one particular moment.

"Just don't use it for what I use it for," he said suddenly. "Don't use it to delete sentiment. Don't lock away your feelings in some drawer or room." He never wanted her to turn out like him. He would be truly devastated is Molly ever used her mind to lock down anything about herself. The statement gave her the courage to talk about what was on her mind.

"Sherlock," she said, breaking the silence that had enveloped them.

"Hmm," he hummed in response and she opened her eyes to turn and look at him. He was still sitting there, his eyes closed but she could see he was listening.

"We almost kissed last night." She started to fidget with the sleeves of her lab coat, afraid of where this conversation might lead them. His eyes popped open.

"I know," he said simply.

"What does that mean?"

He thought for a moment. Sherlock knew that this conversation was important if he wanted to keep Molly around. But he didn't yet know how to tell her how he felt. "It means that my feelings about you have changed but at this time I am unable to articulate those feelings to you."

"But they're good feelings?" she asked hopefully.

"Definitely," he replied without hesitation. Because he knew that much, that what he was feeling for her had changed him for the better.

"Okay." Her eyes closed again. Sherlock was puzzled. He didn't know anything about these kinds of conversations but he did have a bit of experience with Janine. When they were "dating" she constantly wanted to talk about their feelings, especially about his feelings toward her. And she had to get a label out of Sherlock. She wanted to label every stage of their relationship including the point where they were considered boyfriend and girlfriend, much to Sherlock's dismay. He hated the term and all of the childish connotations that went along with it. So when Molly didn't push the subject any further, he was taken aback. But he was also relieved.

"That's it? Just okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"That's good enough for me right now," she replied with her eyes still closed. He looked over at her and the way that she was leaning back beside him, their shoulders almost touching, but not quite. Her hair was pulled back into a braid and it hung off of her shoulder, something that he thought was so completely Molly. It was a characteristic that was so prominent in his mind palace that whenever he saw it on another woman, he immediately thought of his pathologist. He stared at her and thought of how this woman could have possibly broken down his walls, and was wiggling her way in. And he also thought that if this was going to happen with anybody, it would be with her.

"You should know I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing," he whispered, his eyes now falling closed as well. It actually scared him a little bit, taking any further steps with Molly. This was uncharted territory, something that online videos or research couldn't help him with. It was something he had to learn from his own experiences. He didn't elaborate to her, but she knew exactly what he meant. She always knew.

"That's okay. It's like a mind palace, yeah? You start out small and build it up as you go. It will take practice, but you'll get it eventually," she replied and moved closer to him so that their shoulders were touching. He couldn't help smiling and thought that feelings weren't so bad after all, especially the ones that made him feel warm, content, and less alone. If someone were to look in on the two of them, they would see the sweet pathologist from St. Bart's finally getting everything she ever wanted, and the self-proclaimed highly functioning sociopath realizing everything he ever needed. And for that moment in their crazy and messed up worlds, everything was just as it should be; it was perfect for them.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: **Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows. I can't believe there are so many people who like this story. This chapter is a bit different from the rest but I hope you'll still like it. Also, if you like this I have a Sherlolly one shot that you might want to check out. Thanks for reading!-thefaultoflegend**

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Tom never expected his life to turn out like it did. He had a normal childhood. He grew up with his mother and father in the countryside. He had a dog, which he loved dearly. He liked to read and play games. He went to school, made good grades, and had lots of friends. He was completely ordinary. And then university came and the story changed. He got involved in the wrong crowd, a group of law breakers and hot heads, people who did whatever they could to get their own way. He stumbled upon the group, really. He often wondered what his life would be like had he not met a certain man. He was taking a law class and had to do a group project. That's when he first met James Moriarty.

James was always off-putting. He always had a glare in his eyes that shook Tom to his very core. He was intimating; there was no question about that. He took Tom in, said that he was easily moldable and he could use him to his advantage. They didn't end up doing the group project, instead blackmailing the teacher into giving them an A. It was the first taste Tom got of control and manipulation, and he couldn't say that he hated it. He had always been a bit of a nerd, preferring to play trading card games instead of sports in his younger years. Yes he had a lot of friends, but they had always been bullied. Now here was this person who held power, could get anything he wanted done at the snap of his fingers, and Tom was dazzled by it. He had the opportunity to become the bully. He moved to Moriarty, taking in everything he had to teach him. They worked on cases together, being hired by various clients to do their dirty work. He never liked the killing, never that part, but Moriarty made him feel like he was important. It was lucky that he looked like the man's worst enemy.

The road to taking down Sherlock Holmes through Molly Hooper wasn't an easy one, and started soon after the man took his jump. Moriarty knew that there was only a slim possibility that he actually died. When he found out that it was Molly Hooper who helped him accomplish the feat, he knew she had to be eliminated. He couldn't have anybody going against him. But then again, he could use her. Without her knowledge, of course, but she could easily become a piece to his game.

It took time and skill and preparation and charm, something that Tom had a lot of trouble with. But Moriarty taught him; he molded him into becoming a great criminal. The first step was seeking out Molly Hooper's friends. That one was easy, as she didn't have that many outside of work. He put on the long coat, the scarf, and the shoes, and he pretended. He acted like a good man, one who would make a good boyfriend, maybe even one day a good husband. Moriarty had taught him all sorts of acting skills, things that he could use to his advantage. Her friends let him in and he became one of the group. He was out to lunch one day with his new 'friends' when Molly walked in. She was a little bit shy at first, but she warmed up eventually and fell for Tom quickly. Moriarty was right; dressing like Sherlock would work just fine. He smiled when he shook her hand, not because he liked her, but because the plan was finally falling into place.

After that it was easy. He tried his best to act like Sherlock Holmes, coming up short he knew, but Molly still stuck around. He could tell that she was bored with him, but he didn't dare think she would leave. This was probably the only opportunity she'd ever had to settle down with someone and both Moriarty and Tom knew she wouldn't let it go to waste. So of course, when Tom proposed she said yes. After all, Tom was the next best thing if she couldn't have Sherlock.

When Tom first met Sherlock, he saw the smile that the consulting detective threw to his 'fiancée.' He saw the way he looked at her, the longing in his eyes even the man himself didn't know it was there yet. And he also took note of the way he sneered at Tom, how he hated him upon first meeting. And he knew he succeeded. He had, in some way, affected the consulting detective.

The plan was working. Molly Hooper was slowly being extracted from Sherlock Holmes' life. John Watson was already married off and away. And Sherlock was feeling isolated, retreating back to his former state from before he had friends. The next step was to kill Molly Hooper right before the wedding; she wouldn't be needed anymore and Sherlock would have to deal with the pain of losing her for good. It was a good plan, Moriarty coming up with it himself, of course. He said that the only way to destroy Sherlock Holmes was to go through the things that held the most importance to him. And Molly was over looked the first time.

And in the end, she was overlooked the second time. The woman was like a sneak attack, coming out of nowhere; nobody expected it from the mousy Bart's pathologist. But she broke it off with Tom and went running back to Sherlock. But this time it was different. Sherlock was caving into to her. The plan had to be changed. He started calling Molly, trying to win her back, but she wouldn't budge now that she was at least good friends with her consulting detective.

The murders were never supposed to be part of it, but it ended up working better anyway. They scared Sherlock Holmes. They watched as he became more anxious. Slow was better, they realized. Slow was working.

Tom was out that day looking for his next victim. His eyes searched for women in their mid-30s with small frames and long brown hair. He chose the market that day, hoping he could scout someone out. Moriarty had been on his back, constantly bugging him about who was next, that they needed to find someone else. The problem with targeting Sherlock's patience is that it also targeted Moriarty's. The two men were very much alike, Tom realized.

He stood in the soup aisle with a plastic basket in his hands. He never expected what would come next that day. So far, he had been able to avoid any personal run-ins with Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. But when they turned the aisle, a basket in Sherlock's hands he wondered how it hadn't happened yet.

The consulting detective was adorned with his usual long coat and scarf, looking a bit bored but still listening to Molly as she chattered on about some book or TV program, Tom was sure. Neither one of them were paying attention to the man who was standing next to a display of chicken noodle soup. He turned to face the cans, trying to look inconspicuous. But when he reached for a can and instead dropped it on the ground, the pathologist was right there at his feet, picking it up for him. Typical Molly. She looked up and handed it to him, gasping and taking a step back in the process.

"T-T-Tom." She stuttered and her face turned red, her eyes hitting the floor, her shoes, anywhere except for on him. Tom was startled at first. All of his encounters are ones that he always has time to prepare for. It's like an actor getting into character before going out on stage. And right now he's the sweet single guy who wants to take the pretty girl out. He's not the ex-fiancé who's supposed to look like the consulting detective that is still standing in front of him. He panics for a second, realizing that his attire is not what the two people are expecting. After the plan changed he got rid of the coat and scarf, opting for a more normal and relaxed look. He quickly got into a different mind-set, the mind-set of Tom- Molly's not good enough ex-fiancé, and greeted the two of them.

"Hi, Molly. Sherlock." He nodded at the detective and he nodded back. Tom could feel Sherlock's eyes all over him, surely deducing everything about him. He desperately wished that he didn't deduce the most important thing, his affiliation with Moriarty. If Sherlock found out, James would kill Tom this time for sure, it wouldn't just be an empty threat. "It's weird bumping into you guys here. Together," he said to Molly who blushed deeper.

"We're just doing a bit of shopping. Sherlock seems to have more fingers in his refrigerator than food." Tom knew they were living together; Moriarty had people keeping an eye on the two of them, but he didn't expect it to be as serious as Sherlock Holmes, the man who never even thought about doing anything remotely domestic, going grocery shopping.

"Well, yes. Can't have that can we?" He noticed Sherlock eyeing the two of them, and took it as an opportunity to stir things up a bit. "You know, I've been trying to call you, Molly," he said as he took a step closer to her and dropped his voice low. "I wish you would just talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, Tom. We're over," she said simply and strongly.

"But we don't have to be. We can work through this." He took another step forward and she took one back, bumping into Sherlock who, to Tom's amazement, rested a hand on the small of her back protectively.

"I said no, Tom," spoke Molly. Tom went to protest but Sherlock, who had kept quiet up to this point stepped in front of the pathologist, putting himself between the ex-fiancés.

"She said no, Tom. And I suggest you quit contacting her or else you will have not only me, but also my brother to answer to. And I assure you that you don't want that. You've changed your look, I see. This means I know you're looking for other women. Carrying around an empty shopping basket and you've been here for an hour, judging by the fact that your clothes are dry and it's been raining all day. You surely would have found something within an hour of shopping, but no, that's not why you're here. You've come here to meet people, women to be specific. And I don't know why you're still after Molly when she obviously has no interest in you and has never had any real interest with you. Stay away from my pathologist." With that Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand and towed her away from the soup aisle, leaving Tom there with a devilish smile on his face. Oh yes, this plan was going to work just fine.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Warning: This chapter is fluffy. I just hope you guys like it. Let me know. Also, I'm going on yet another trip (a very long bus ride) with my band because our hockey team is doing so well. So I have absolutely no idea when the next update will be but hang in there. Thanks for reading and for all of the reviews and follows. It means a lot!-thefaultoflegend**

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"He's an imbecile, Molly. I really don't see how you ever went out with him." Sherlock was flopped in a chair at his kitchen table watching Molly remove their groceries from a paper bag and separate them on the kitchen counters. She had tried to keep the kitchen clean ever since she got there and had so far succeeded in doing so.

"Sherlock, I know that. Which is why I broke up with him in the first place. Well that wasn't really it. But it was part of the reason." They had been discussing Tom ever since their little run in at the grocery store. Sherlock had paid for their food and got out of the market so fast that Molly almost got whip lash. Now, she wished that he would just drop the topic.

"Okay. But why did you date him the first place?" said the consulting detective letting out an exasperated sigh.

"Sherlock," she said giving him a leveling stare. "You know why." He went to say something, puckering out his lips, but instead leaned back in the chair with his eyebrows furrowed. Him, of course. He was like Sherlock. It still didn't give Molly any reason to go out with him in Sherlock's eyes. Why should she ever settle? She was entirely too good for Tom.

"Well he's…dumb," said Sherlock and Molly laughed. He had used every negative word he could think of to describe Tom. Molly thought he had finally used up his arsenal but with this new declaration, she realized he was resorting to layman's terms. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter. She gave him a once over, taking into account the way is leg was shaking and his flushed cheeks, indicating his raised heart rate. That added to the way he acted in the grocery store could only mean one thing. "Stop it," he said suddenly. "I feel like you're deducing me."

Molly just gave him a coy smile. "You're jealous of Tom," she said and watched as Sherlock's face lit up with horror. She laughed out loud then as the detective stood up and scoffed at the notion.

"Not jealous," he said pointing a finger at her and then taking three long strides over to his violin, beginning to play something high and fast.

It had been four days since their almost kiss, four days since the third body was found. Sherlock had tried to calm down, he had tried to play Moriarty's little game, but his patience was wearing thin. He hated not knowing what was happening. He hated not being able to track Moriarty down, and oh how he tried, from the flat or St. Bart's of course. Because another thing he hated was leaving Molly alone.

Nothing more had really happened since that day when he taught her how to use a mind palace. They were pretty much the same, except for maybe sitting closer on the couch when watching crap telly. He fell asleep with her one night like they did before, waking up with her hand in his. The other two nights he didn't sleep at all, instead keeping an eye, via the web, on people who could get him to Moriarty. And trying to figure out the victim code that he left. He knew that if Moriarty got the chance, he would take her now. It had been long enough since this all started.

And that's why he didn't leave her. That's why, even now with his hand on his bow and his eyes fixed on the street, he still kept listening for her soft humming coming from the kitchen, afraid that if he didn't know where she was, she would just disappear.

She had only gotten annoyed with him a few times. Once was when he decided to work on a body that she had yet to examine. That earned him a smack on the arm and exile from the morgue for the rest of the day. She wouldn't even talk to him until he pouted enough and brought her a coffee to make up for it. The second time was when he decided to use Toby as a test subject. That one was much, much worse it seemed, even though he explained that it wouldn't hurt the cat in anyway. Molly was still furious with him but forgave him when Sherlock played her an arrangement he had been working on. He didn't tell her that it was for her.

Besides that things were going just fine between the two of them. And he was quite thankful to have her around, otherwise he would have died from boredom. Going grocery shopping was her idea, to get him out of the house. She happily let him deduce whomever he wanted and even chimed in on a few occasions with something he had missed. The dinner was her idea, too. John, Mary, and Mrs., Hudson would be there soon to eat and Sherlock didn't exactly hate the idea of having them all together. He hadn't seen John in a few days, so that would at least be pleasant.

A six o' clock Mrs. Hudson and the Watsons arrived, knocking on the door as Molly rushed over to answer it. Sherlock was still scraping away at his violin. Mrs. Hudson entered first, passing a pie to Molly, followed by a very, very pregnant Mary and a rather tired looking John helping her up the steep stairs.

"Wow, Molly it smells amazing in here," said Mary who took the nearest chair to her and rubbed her protruding stomach. "And I think this is the cleanest I've ever seen this place."

"Thanks. The food was me but the cleaning was all Sherlock. I'm just as shocked as you are," replied Molly while walking over to set the pie down and stir a sauce mixture.

"Sherlock did this?" asked John, glancing quickly at the detective.

"Apparently I'm not completely useless when it comes to sanitation," replied Sherlock who had finally set down the violin and walked to the kitchen to greet everyone. The group chatted for a while, Sherlock successfully tuning out a very long and boring story from Mrs. Hudson, and then two men went to their respective chairs while the women talked happily in the kitchen.

"I'm still not used to that," said John as he sat down, looking over at Molly's chair. Sherlock simply shrugged and kept his eyes trained on the kitchen, specifically on Molly who was now feeling Mary's stomach, most likely waiting for the baby to kick. John spun around to see what his friend was so interested in. "So things are going well between you two?" he asked turning back to Sherlock. He gave a small nod. "That's all I get? Just a head nod?" Sherlock tried desperately to form his thoughts into words before grunting and sitting forward in his chair, ruffling his curls.

"Something has changed and I don't know what to do about it," he said to the floor. John smirked. Sherlock was usually so specific with everything he said. It would take him thirty pages to say what a normal person could say in a sentence. So it was funny that now, when talking about Molly, he conjured up the most vague sentence that has ever come out of his mouth.

"Care to elaborate?" said John, keeping his voice low so the women in the other room wouldn't hear them.

"I don't… I don't know how… how do I…further a relationship. Or start one for that matter." It came out as more of a sentence and he sounded frustrated. John watched in amazement as the detective blushed and looked shy. Sherlock had tried to initiate contact with Molly over the past few days but he always over thought it and lost the courage just when he was about to do it. They weren't really big gestures. He just wanted to hold her hand when they were sitting next to each other or sit as close as they were in the lab that day. But something stopped him every time.

"Sherlock, you just do it. You don't think about it. Just go with your gut instinct," said John. But he knew that it would be a problem for his friend, the one who had to think through everything.

"What if it ends badly? I'd make a rubbish boyfriend." He shuddered at the word. "I know how to do quite a lot of things, John. But this isn't one of them."

"You would make a rubbish boyfriend, I won't argue with that," started John as Sherlock listened intently. "Look, Sherlock. Molly is… she's like your wallpaper. She's a constant in your life. She's always there, she's not leaving. Even if you do something stupid she still isn't going to just leave. I mean she hasn't yet."

"Wallpaper?" questioned Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. John just nodded. Sherlock turned to look at the wall and his wallpaper. He supposed John was right. If he could experiment on Molly's cat and still get her to stick around, then she really wasn't going anywhere. His eyes drifted over to the yellow smiley face that he made so long ago. "What does it say that I shoot my wallpaper when I'm bored?" asked Sherlock, a small smirk playing on his face. John laughed out loud.

"I guess you'll just have to figure that one out for yourself," he replied while still laughing. Sherlock continued to stare at the wall, thinking about Molly Hooper.

"Hey, Sherlock. Can you please get the eyeballs out of the bathroom sink so Mrs. Hudson can wash her hands," came the voice of Molly as she entered the room where the two men were sitting. He didn't answer her. "Why is he staring at the wall?" she asked John.

"Shh… I think he's coming to a realization." And John was right, but it wasn't the kind of realization that he thought it was.

"How could I have been so stupid?" Sherlock suddenly shouted quite loudly, causing both Molly and John to jump in their chairs. He rushed over to his laptop and punched madly at the keys, scrolling threw a web page. Molly walked over to him, peering over his shoulder.

"Why are you looking at my blog?" she asked. But he ignored her and instead clicked on a new entry. He scared her when he acted like this and her voice became louder, more panicked. "Sherlock, why?"

"Molly, move," he yelled at her causing her to step back. Deducing her he did, running experiments on her cat he did, but yelling was never something Sherlock did to Molly. Ever. The got into fights where he yelled, yes. But it was never a command like that. He suddenly slammed both hands on the desk. "Damn, I've been so slow."

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John asked nervously.

"The code. I figured out the code." He stared out the window and then quickly made a grab for his violin. _Molly is mine._ The letters corresponded with her blog and although he didn't have them all yet and they were all scrambled, he could easily figure out the message, but wasn't what was important. What was important was not having them all meant there would be more murders. And he didn't want to think about what would happen once the sentence was completed. He was still missing about five letters. He didn't know what Moriarty had planned for Molly, though he wouldn't put it past the consulting criminal to kill her.

"Sherlock," said Molly as she stood in front of him and tried to make him look at her. "Sherlock what does it say? Why were you looking at my blog?" He still didn't answer her and Molly began to grow angrier. The group of three people watched the two from the kitchen. "Sherlock." She grabbed his arms and the bow scraped across the strings.

"Molly, stop it. Just stop," he said, not yelling this time but talking with his teeth clenched.

"Tell me," she demanded.

"No. I'm not going to tell you," Sherlock snapped back.

"My God, they're like an old married couple," commented Mary from the kitchen.

"If this is about me then I have the right to know!" she yelled.

"You don't need to know! Yes, it has to do with your blog! But you knowing won't change anything so just drop it Molly."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Because I'm trying to protect you!" The whole flat got quiet as Sherlock's eyes finally landed on hers. "It's fine. Listen." His hands dropped to her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. Please. Let's just…enjoy dinner. Really, it's okay." He hated not telling her but she would only worry more. He knew that she could handle it, she was strong. But he felt this protectiveness over her that he couldn't give in to. Molly searched his eyes and when she saw that they were sincere, she nodded silently. The group went to the kitchen quietly. Eventually conversation picked up again and Sherlock and Molly were able to relax a bit, enjoying company with friends and temporarily forgetting their little fight and the crazy situation that they were in.

Later that night, Molly was cleaning up the kitchen. The sun had gone down and the room was under the soft glow of moonlight and a few candles that Molly had lit. Sherlock stood in the entry way, watching her closely and smiling at the way she hummed to her favorite song and occasionally talked to Toby who was circling at her feet. The company had made her very happy, and that made Sherlock happy. He thought about what it would be like, if he defeated Moriarty and they were all safe again and Molly would have to move back into her flat. He decided that he wouldn't like that at all.

"Let me help," he said, stepping up beside the sink and grabbing the towel that was hanging off of her shoulder. Molly smiled at him.

"Thanks," she said and turned to finish up the last couple of the dishes. They stood in silence for a little bit until Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier," he stated.

"It's okay. I probably over reacted. It's just been…"

"Hard," he filled in for her and she nodded slowly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm always fine," she replied while handing him the last dish. He dried it slowly and then put it away, turning around to find Molly leaning up against sink. "You're going to have to leave again, aren't you." He stood in front of her and took her all in. He felt like he hadn't deduced her in days and really felt like he didn't need to anymore. But now he noticed the worry lines on her face and that she had started biting her fingernails again. He had another one of those moments where he just couldn't stop staring at her. Molly, the one who counted. The one who always counted. The one who would always be there, was always there, even before John was.

"I don't know. If he's back then that means his network could be back and I don't know who else would be able to take it down. But I don't want to leave. Not when there's a new Watson on the way that needs looking after. And not when…"

"Not when what?"

He almost stopped himself from what he wanted to do next but John's clear voice rang in his head. Don't think. It won't go badly. Just do it.

He stared at her, looking a little nervous and wondering how they had come so far in just a few short months. She smiled the softness that filled his eyes and he could feel this pull between them unlike anything he had ever felt. A strand of hair fell into her eyes and he softly tucked it behind her ear while leaning forward, so slowly. He got so close to her, closer than last time and searched her eyes for any sign of hesitation. He was relieved to not find any at all. He smiled one last time and cradled her head between his hands before leaning down and placing his lips softly on hers. He didn't know what he was expecting, but what he got was so much better than anything he could have ever imagined. The kiss was soft and slow at first, his hands planted softly upon her cheeks, and one of her hands slowly reaching up to touch his face. But he soon took a step forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her arms snaked up around his shoulders, wrapping around his neck and she deepened their kiss. Molly had imagined this moment so many times in her head but when it was happening right then, it blew all of those thoughts away. It was like a breath of fresh air for both of them, like they were both drowning and suddenly they're being pulled above the water and out into the sunlight. She smiled against his lips and he smiled, too, pulling her flush against him. Sherlock wondered why people made this type of thing so complicated when kissing Molly Hooper had suddenly become the easiest thing in the entire world. When they broke off, both of them breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead against hers, her face becoming a blur but his mind being more clear than it had been in weeks.

"I don't want to leave when that just happened," he finished, smiling the biggest smile that had ever graced his face.

"I'm glad you taught me how to use my mind palace," whispered Molly.

"Why?" he whispered back.

"So I can always remember that."

He laughed softly and moved to kiss her on the forehead. "I don't need a mind palace to remember that, Molly Hooper."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Chapter 16! We only have a few more chapters left and then I don't know what I'm going to do with my life. Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think! -thefaultoflegend**

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He got the text at around three in the morning from Lestrade. Any other time, he would have been excited to get a text from him. A few months ago he would have spun around in a circle screaming yes, with a smile on his face that resembled a five-year old's. He used to live for these kinds of things. He loved every bit of the killing, the mystery, the codes, the clues, and the deductions. He especially loved it on days like these, when his mind needed an outlet, when he hadn't gotten his fix in a while. He used to be like a vulture, waiting for others to kill the prey before sweeping in and picking through all of the pieces, looking for ones that he could use. But times had changed. He was now like a wolf, protecting his pack, making sure no one broke through his defenses. Now, when he got the text, a new body found dead, he looked over at his pathologist who was curled up sleeping next to him at the end of the couch and he sighed.

He never thought that he would get to the day when he would rather leave the cases behind if it meant his friends could be safe. But then, he never thought that he would get to the day when he would have friends. And where his body was once a place where sentiment couldn't be found, it was now a place where his mind and his heart battled it out at all points. The voice always sounded like Mycroft, _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. _And he desperately tried to push it down because his heart knew the truth; Sherlock wasn't losing right now. Maybe he was losing a case against Moriarty; maybe his sentiment had given him a pressure point in the first place. But in every aspect that counted, Sherlock was winning with the woman beside him, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, Mary, the future baby Watson, and even Mycroft being living proof.

He leaned over and gently shook Molly Hooper awake. She sat up rather ungracefully, her hair sticking out in all kinds of odd angles because she neglected to braid it before curling up on the couch next to Sherlock and falling asleep. "What's wrong?" she asked sleepily, her words slurred and quiet. A million thoughts ran through her head. _Moriarty's here, Sherlock's bored, someone died, Mary's having the baby, Mrs. Hudson had a heart attack, the flat is surrounded, someone needs me to look at a body. _He felt bad for waking her, but he couldn't leave her behind and by herself.

"Lestrade found another body. We have to go," he said just as softly, while trying to look into her pupils that were blown wide in the dark. She flopped back down on the couch while throwing a pillow over her face and groaning.

"Or we can just stay," she mumbled. The last thing she wanted was to get up at three in the morning and go to a flat where a body that looked like her was dead on the ground. She could feel his eyes on her, probably saying something like you know we can't do that. The silence was thick between the two of them. Her wanting him to just stay, and him wanting her to come with him, and the two of them just willing for the whole Moriarty thing to disappear. "Fine," she said after a few minutes. "But I'm wearing my pajamas." He simply nodded and grabbed her coat off the hook, holding it out. She shrugged it on and he swung his coat on, wrapping his scarf around his neck, still in his pajamas as well. They were both dead tired, and just stood there staring at each other for a minute, trying to stay on their feet. "The game is on?" she asked him quietly. He gave her a small, sad smile and leaned in to kiss her forehead with his newfound love for being close to Molly.

"Not so much a game anymore," he replied and they walked outside into the night.

Sherlock and Molly exited the cab with a slump in their shoulders and defeat in their eyes. Moriarty's men who stood close by to the scene of the murder took note and were sure to report back to their superior. They were always there, always watching. They clung to the shadows of the London night with coats pulled up to their necks. They trudged the length of Baker Street watching over Mr. Holmes and Dr. Hooper. They had to stay vigilant to make sure the plan was always working. The pair in question had made their way to Lestrade who was looking over his men. Several people were now hurriedly making their way in and out of the apartment building. Lestrade's eyes were tired, matching those of the consulting detective and the pathologist.

This incident was taking its toll on everyone involved. Moriarty had that effect, especially on those associated with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock attracted a certain type of person, those who craved danger and mystery, those who longed for excitement and adventure. And when Moriarty was around they got too much. If mystery was a drug then this case caused an overdose and everyone's systems were crashing.

Lestrade eyed the pair closely, taking in their pajamas and their closeness to each other with Molly practically leaning on Sherlock in order to say on her feet and Sherlock not having any intentions of moving away. "Stay here," he whispered to her as Greg started to lead them into the building.

"Sherlock, I can handle it," she replied back and tried to follow them in but he stopped her with his hands on her shoulders.

"I know you can. But just stay here." She was too tired to argue with him. He looked as if he was going to say something else but then he just gave her a small smile and awkwardly patted her shoulder before walking down the hallway. Molly watched the pair enter a room on the first floor. Light spilled out into the dim hallway and she heard Sherlock's voice coming softly from the room. She leaned against the wall just inside the entry way and wondered how Sherlock felt when he went in to those flats, when her look-a-likes were the victims. After the fall, working on a body that looked like Sherlock was almost too much for Molly to handle. There were numerous times when she had to turn away to gain her composure. She couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like if it was actually Sherlock who she was looking at, what it would feel like if their carefully crafted plan had failed and he had died. She would have been a mess, a wreck. So yes, working on that body bothered her greatly. She imagined that now that the roles were reversed, Sherlock wouldn't feel nearly as much as she did. She knew he cared for especially after that kiss and how protective he had been lately, but Molly had loved him for longer. She had always felt for him while it seemed that his care had just started. So, no, being around a body that looked like her probably didn't affect him very much. He was, as she knew, an expert a taking emotion out of everything. But then again, he was getting better.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stood in the woman's flat staring at her lifeless form, his mind unable to even process his surroundings. Bu now, it was automatic, all of the deductions and observations, so they didn't really require his attention. But forming words to tell Lestrade what he needed to know had suddenly become difficult. "If this is too hard for you…" started Lestrade when he noticed his friend's distress but he was soon cut off.

"It's not too hard for me," said Sherlock sharply, trying to shake himself out of his stupor. "It's the same as the rest, nothing new to report." He took out his phone and took pictures of the girl's cut-arms as his mind palace wasn't working well enough to catalogue them. He planned to match them up to Molly's blog later to make sure they fit. There were four sets this time. Four more letters down, one more to go. One more body to go until the message was complete, until Moriarty's plan was finally going to unfold completely. A plan that involved Molly. _Molly is mine. _No. Molly wasn't his. She wasn't Moriarty's. She was his. Sherlock's. _She's mine _he thought to himself. _I want her to be mine and I won't let anything happen to her. _

"Sherlock!" Her scream cut through his thoughts and in an instant he was by her side. "Someone was watching us. They ran down there." Molly's voice came panicked and shaky and she pointed towards an alley way to the side of the building that was completely dark, a perfect place to hide where no one could see. Except, of course, for Molly Hooper who was always messing up the plan. Sherlock took off from the complex with Molly screaming his name after him. Greg was right on his heels, following after the younger detective.

"Anderson! Stay with Molly! We'll meet you at Scotland Yard!" yelled Sherlock quickly as he ran. Molly went to take off as well but Anderson grabbed her just in time and pulled her back.

"Stay here," he told her. "They'll take care of it. They'll be fine."

"If he doesn't die I'm going to kill him," said Molly, wondering why the idiot would run off like that in the first place when the spy would take him to the man who tried to kill him. But then she remembered, this was Sherlock. He always ran into the face of danger.

And that's what he was doing. He searched his surroundings as he ran, picking up on clues as to which way the man went. Footprints in a patch of dirt led him left down another alley. A splash mark from someone stepping in a puddle led him right. They kept running, Lestrade keeping up with Sherlock surprisingly well. The roads were caked in filth and water from the recent rain. Lighting was scarce and Sherlock could barely see as he barreled down London's back streets. He had only one thought on his mind. Take down Moriarty. When they had been running for a few minutes, Sherlock heard footsteps other than their own. He increased his pace, his feet hitting hard against the street, his heart beat banging in his ears, and his breath coming out in short huffs. At last, he saw the traces of a white tee shirt in the moonlight, a poor choice of clothing for hiding out, Sherlock thought. He got close, the man turning his head around only to see the outraged eyes and flaring nostrils of the consulting detective. Sherlock reached out and grabbed his collar, pulling him back. He quickly grabbed the man's arms and pushed him up against the wall, face-front.

"Who do you work for?" questioned Sherlock as he twisted one of the man's arms. The man tried to wriggle free but failed against Sherlock's hard grip.

"I don't know what you're talking about," gasped the man with his head turned to the left, his cheek up against the red brick of the building that blocked the encounter from the rest of the world. Sherlock grew increasingly angry.

"You are out at three o' clock in the morning where there just happens to be a murder scene. Your arms are built and toned, you are a fast runner, the way you hold your hands suggest that you certainly know how to use a gun and the gun powder on your shirt suggests that you've done it recently. That accompanied with the fact that you stayed hidden until you get your hands on my girlf…my friend means that you are not just some innocent bystander. Now you are going to tell me who you work for." Sherlock's breath came hot and fast in the man's ear and his grip twisted his arm more with each sentence.

"You know who, Mr. Holmes," said the man through gritted teeth. Sherlock pulled him back and threw him against the wall once more.

"Where is he?" When the man didn't answer, he pushed him once more. "Answer me."

"Sherlock." Lestrade who had been waiting off to the side with his gun drawn now spoke up. "We'll take him to the Yard. We can question him there." Greg pulled the handcuffs and strapped them around the man's wrist, then called one of the guys to come pick the group up.

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Molly sat in a chair, her eyes wide but still tired. When she saw Sherlock, she walked over and swatted him on the arm. "What the hell were you thinking?" He didn't answer her, instead turned around and led her to the cab he had waiting outside, leaving the questioning to Lestrade. He would come in the next day and finish what he started with the man. On the ride back, he kept thinking about how to trace Moriarty using their new prisoner. And the fact that he almost called Molly his girlfriend. Not only did he hate the term fiercely, but she was certainly not his girlfriend. Not yet anyway. At least he didn't think so. He wasn't sure how these things worked when they were real, when he wasn't just acting.

"You know I had to chase after him," he said to her, trying to make her face out through the darkness.

"I know," she whispered back. "I'm just so tired of it all, of all this Moriarty everything."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Sherlock," she sighed and moved closer to him. It was always comforting when she was sitting next to him.

"I made a mistake," his voice staying low. "I almost called you my gir… I …I made it clear that you were important to me. That's what he wants. Moriarty wants us to get close. So he can tear us apart. Well it's working, apparently. I can barely get through a scene examination without running out of the room." The sentence was a sad one, but it made Molly feel better knowing that she was wrong. That seeing those bodies did affect him. And that she now knew that his feelings for her were genuine.

"Well am I?" she asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Are you what?"

"Am I your girlfriend?" The question startled him and he was thankful when they pulled up to his flat and got out. He dropped it, having no idea how to respond and followed Molly back to his room when she went to get a few hours of sleep before work. He sat on the bed beside her and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly in his. "I care for you, Molly Hooper," he said and she gave him a simple _I know _as if seeing through Sherlock Holmes was the thing that came easiest to her. After a few minutes she pulled him down and laid her head against his chest. He awkwardly wrapped an arm around her until relaxing and pulling her in close.

"I detest that word," he said suddenly and Molly chuckled.

"What? Girlfriend?" She could feel him nodding.

"But I don't know what word to use."

"That's okay. Just let me know when you figure it out," she whispered before falling asleep. He held on to her, enjoying the feeling of her body pressed up against his and how her proximity cleared his mind and clouded it all at the same time. She was like the single light at the end of the tunnel. She was that moment when he was working on a big case and he could see the end, where he finally figured out the killer or the weapon or the location of a lost object. The moment where he thought himself stupid to not realize it before, that it didn't have to be as hard as he made it. The place where everything finally made sense. That was Molly to him.

"I will," he replied and despite their eventful night, he was asleep within seconds.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Sorry this took so long but I've been having terrible writer's block with this chapter. There should be two more left after this one and then that's it. So let me know what you think and thanks for reading!-thefaultoflegend**

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Molly woke up to rain pattering against the window in Sherlock's room. It was dreary outside, but that suited her just fine as all she wanted to do was lay in bed all day. The room held a soft glow with the only sound coming from the water splashing down outside. Everything was still and calm and it was just what Molly needed. She was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock was still there, holding her tightly against him and still sleeping. She thought for sure that she would wake up and he would be gone, maybe just to the kitchen to do an experiment. Maybe down to Scotland Yard to interrogate their recent captive, with John or someone here to watch Molly, she was certain. He hadn't left her alone in days. But no, here he was, with her, sleeping soundly, his heart beating steadily where she rested her hand over his chest. Things were definitely changing in this consulting detective.

She turned slowly, careful not to wake him, and looked up at his face. There were times when Molly had caught him sleeping before, when she spent evenings at 221B and he dozed off in his chair after four days with no sleep and completing a big case. During those times, he always looked so pained with his eyebrows scrunched together and worry-lines on his forehead. He would sometimes mumble things, incoherent thoughts that Molly could never understand. She suspected he just always had nightmares, which would make perfect sense to her. He did, after all, spend most of his time around the dangerous. If she had as much involvement as Sherlock did with near-death experiences, she imagined that she would have nightmares every time she slept, too. She wondered if that's why he evaded sleep. He was like a trained fighter, dodging and fighting back with his own tiredness. But looking at him now, his face was filled with contentment, a look that made Molly question if it had something to do with the fact that she was there with him. And she wondered that if that was the case, if he would ever tell her something like that.

She knew that Sherlock could never be like a normal romantic partner, if that's even what they were right then. He would be impossible at times and moody. He would say mean things and he wouldn't be able to express to her how he felt. But Molly loved all those things about him, too. In fact she hoped that if her relationship with Sherlock continued, things wouldn't really change. She liked the experiments and the lazy evenings playing bored games. She liked watching murder mysteries and placing bets on who the killer was. She liked the intelligent conversation and talking about their days, the cases he was working on, the tests she was running. Looking back on the last few months, she supposed that her and Sherlock were sort of together already, it was just that neither one of them realized.

She reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline, which caused his eyes to flutter open slowly. He looked around confused at first as if waking up in his bed wasn't a common occurrence at all, but eventually his eyes settled on hers and he unconsciously tightened his grip around her waist. She didn't mention the fact that he was supposed to be interrogating somebody right now so he didn't either. In truth, he felt like interrogating Moriarty's man would move the process along faster, like Molly would be gone from him faster. And if he pretended that there wasn't someone sitting in jail that had information that he would refuse to give to Sherlock anyway, then everything was okay. "I feel like I just woke from the dead," he said softly and let his head rest back against the pillow.

"Well I hope that can't happen because I'd be out of a job," she responded.

"Don't make jokes, Molly." He smirked and she did, too. Both of them just lying there and enjoying the feeling of the other.

"I think I'm out of a job already anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I was supposed to be at work three hours ago." It was true. She only planned on taking a small nap before getting up and leaving, but she forgot to set an alarm.

"I texted Mike Stamford and told him you weren't coming in today," he said as his eyes began to fall closed again. He had never slept so well in his whole life and he didn't want to stop yet. Molly sat up beside him in surprise and he sighed at the loss of contact with her.

"How did you…why did you…" she started but knew she just shouldn't question him. He just shrugged his shoulders and looked up at her with a gleam in his eyes. All he wanted was for her to be back beside him.

"I've been going through names," he said suddenly. She gave him a questioning look. "To replace… that word." _Girlfriend, _he thought to himself. Only able to fully say it in his head. She smiled at him now, her expression softening and it gave him courage, just like always. Except right now he didn't have to face his death, he just had to face his feelings. Which was harder for him anyway. "I want to further our relationship," he said using the same words that he used with John. "So, significant other. Partner in crime. Confidante. Partner. Companion." She started laughing and he looked at her, a little pout crossing his features.

"Sherlock, whatever name you come up with will be fine with me as long as I'm yours." _As long as I'm yours. Mine. _He smiled, remembering the message that Moriarty left, but also that all he wanted was for her to be his and that somehow she had sensed that.

"Molly…" he started but then trailed off. Instead he gently pulled her down again until her head was against his chest. She smiled into his shirt.

"You know if you can just tell me when you want me to be with you," she whispered.

"So if I were to say that what happened last night in the kitchen was a pleasant experience that is worth more resear…" She cut him off by turning over and kissing him softly, her lips lingering on his for only a brief moment, marveling at the fact that he could ever want her. She pulled away but he grabbed her and flipped her over, kissing her again, harder this time. For the millionth time in the past two and half years he was reminded about how lucky he was to have Molly.

He pulled away to look at her, gulping down a hint of fear before saying, "I really like you, Molly Hooper." Molly was happy to hear his admission, knowing that it would have been hard for him to say anything at all and that he must have dwelled on it for a while. Their lips met again, saying everything that they didn't know how to, I need you right now, I'm scared, thank you for being here. Molly reached up to run her fingers through his hair thinking that it had never been like this before. Not with Jim, not with Tom, not with anyone. Which shouldn't surprise her but it does because this is Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes isn't supposed to know how to do this sort of thing. But they just fit so well and being together was so easy when everything said that it shouldn't be. Because they were both complicated people with this strange dynamic that nobody else seemed to understand. Except the two of them were finally understanding it. He grabbed onto her tighter as if letting her go would mean she would fade away and she hummed appreciatively as their mouths danced around together.

And Molly wondered if this is happening too fast but then smiles because it's been years and years and years. Liking Sherlock Holmes is the longest thing she's ever done and now here they were, her pinned underneath him with her hands roaming his back and a small sigh coming from his mouth. And Sherlock questions why he's never tried this before because it is so much better than a case, so much better than a few nicotine patches, so much better than combining chemicals in a lab. He suspects he could do this all day with all thoughts of Moriarty and dead girls and henchmen pushed out of his mind with just Molly. Standing there in his mind palace figuratively and being right there with him physically.

They were interrupted by a ringing phone, of course. Sherlock pulled away slowly. "If that is Lestrade, I will not hesitate to follow through on my pre-thought plan on how to kill him," he grumbled as he reached over and grabbed his phone off of his nightstand, trying to catch his breath. Molly just laughed as she caught a glimpse of the name on the screen.

"What, Lestrade," demanded the consulting detective. He was still positioned over Molly, looking down into her eyes as he talked. She could hear Lestrade's question from where she laid.

"Why are you out of breath?"

"I was…er…uh… unimportant." Molly couldn't contain her laughter as she watched Sherlock, who was usually so eloquent suddenly stuttering over his words. He glared and her and laid a hand over her mouth, trying to listen to Lestrade. Molly was still smiling, but then watched as his face fell. "Okay. Yes. We will be right down. Thanks, uh… Greg." He hung up and leaned forward on impulse to kiss Molly's forehead.

"They found the last body," she said quietly. And he nodded, slowly, sadly. "That was quick. It's only been a few hours."

"Yes well I suppose that someone is getting bored. And it's about damn time." There was so much unspoken between the two of them. They knew that this was it, that whatever plan this was building up to was finally unraveling. And it was scary and relieving all at the same time. That no matter what happened it would be over soon.

"Well then I guess it's time to take this guy down." Her confidence was enough to get him going again as he sprang up and dressed quickly. She went to the bathroom and did the same. They met at the door, walking out arm in arm, lines of worry now replaced with expressions of determination, feeling that it was nice to at least be a part of team.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I said two more chapters. I lied. It will be more, definitely less than five though. It's just going to take longer than I thought to get this all out and I hope that's okay. Thanks for all of the kind reviews and all of the follows. You guys are awesome!—thefaultoflegend**

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Sherlock sat perched on a stool in the morgue, his hands against his mouth. If someone he knew well were to look at him, they would think that he was somewhere far away, somewhere up in the massive expanse of his brain, running down the halls and pulling books off of shelves and slamming doors. They wouldn't talk to him if they knew him well, wouldn't bother him because they knew that he would grow irritable. But he was only half in his mind palace now, in that place where being interrupted was welcome, where having someone talk to him could take away the boredom and isolation.

His other half was fully engaged in his present reality. His eyes were wide open and he was staring at the woman who was bent over a cold metal table with human remains laid across it. He wondered how someone who was so alive could love working around death and decay. Her long brown hair was tied back in a braid, her lab coat hanging loosely on her shoulders, and her brown eyes shone whenever she glanced up at him. Sherlock would be lying if he said his pulse didn't accelerate every time she did so. She had no idea of the effect she had on him. His Molly. In danger, undoubtedly, and he felt completely out of control. So there he was, cataloging her as if he didn't have all of her information stored in his head already. Everything from the years and years that he had known her. Everything from the past few months when he had actually gotten to know her, and not just from the observations and deductions about her, but the things that came straight from her mouth, the things that he could never pick up on. But he needed to do it then, needed to take everything in. It helped calm him down in the same way that Molly's shoulders relaxed as she methodically began her autopsy.

Earlier, they had arrived at the murder scene in a flurry of action and disarray and it didn't take either of them very long to know that something was different. They climbed stairs slowly, in unison, giving themselves mental pep talks, little notes of encouragement. He checked the body carefully, finding the same things as before. She did the same, but while giving her partner plenty of space.

"You used to take notes," he remarked softly. She simply took her finger, tapped her head, got back to storing information. _Her mind palace _he thought, which caused the corners of his lips to quirk up in recognition that he gave at least one good thing to Molly Hooper. She smiled back at him, a small smile that didn't really hold any happiness now that they were there, on a murder scene, and their soft safe space of Sherlock's bedroom was gone. Lestrade looked between the two of them. It didn't take a consulting detective to figure out that there was something going on between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. He ignored it, however, and led them both to the small living area in the flat. There was a telly with another note. Sherlock got a flashback to days previous when he and John were put in a similar situation and he wondered if this was it, if this is what would lead him to Moriarty.

Now Sherlock knew that Moriarty loved games, maybe even more than Sherlock did himself. He knew that there would be some final test, some last act of wit between the two of them. Back then, he knew. He knew he would have to jump off of a building. He knew when it would happen and where it would happen and how he was going to get out of it. But now, he had no idea. The back of his brain, something in the form of Mycroft, told him that it would have to do with Molly, but he tried to push the thought back. Locking it a room, the one that used to hold sentiment and feeling. That iron door with big bolts on the edges, able to seal anything away if he tried hard enough, but also able to open up if he really wanted it to. So he opened it, just a crack, and that thought came to the forefront of his mind, the thought that Molly would be the game. He couldn't ignore it now because she was here and she was in danger and three years ago, Sherlock would have been upset. He would have mourned had she been killed or tortured. But he would have moved on. Now, however, after all the changes he went through, all the changes that he and Molly went through, he would be devastated. So he took a look at her, before pressing the play button on the remote and watching the face of James Moriarty flood the screen.

"Hey, Sherlock," he said. "Molly." His eyes lit up with fire and his smile turned sinister. Molly shuddered and looked away, anywhere but on the telly screen or the consulting detective, whose jaw was now set in a hard line, his fists clenching at his sides. "Oh, yes. I know you're there, too. I've had my eyes on you. The two of you. Have you liked playing my little game? Getting bored yet? Well I am. I'd say it's time to end this thing, and don't worry because I'm going to win this time." The screen clicked off. Sherlock expected more. He expected so much more from this, more information, more anything. Anything that would help save Molly and himself. He walked over and was about to punch the wall, just like before, when he felt a small hand on his arm, saw brown eyes staring into his and he slowly lowered it, stepping back and hanging his head low.

"This body is the same as the rest. Send it to the morgue immediately so that Molly and I can run some tests. This should be the last one; I don't expect any more since the message is complete. There was only one letter left and she has scratch marks on her arm so it's done. They wouldn't do anything new, not now. Not when it's supposedly going to end soon," his voice was low but fast.

"What about Moriarty?" questioned Lestrade.

"I don't know." This was almost a whisper and Molly put her hand into his, trying to give him some comfort.

They left and went to Bart's immediately so Molly could start working on the body from the night before. Which is what led them to where they are now, him staring at her and her trying hard not to notice.

"Shouldn't you be checking this out with me?" she asked him when the weight of his stare was too much for her to handle.

"I know that you are more than capable of doing it yourself," he replied calmly, his icy eyes still burning into hers. She nodded and got back to work just as the other body was brought in, the one from earlier that afternoon. It was stored away until Molly could get to it, hidden from sight which was better. Seeing one body there that looked like her was distressing. Two might have sent her over the edge. She was thinking so loudly. "Two wouldn't send you over the edge, Molly. You're strong," he remarked and she blushed a little bit, always taken back when he was able to read her perfectly.

They sat in silence for a long time. It wasn't uncomfortable, but Molly kept looking up to make sure that Sherlock was still there with her. "What are you thinking about?" she asked him while she carefully examined the body. He was showing all of the telltale signs that he was at least half in his mind palace. She had stared at him enough over the years to be able to pick up on it with just one look.

"Do you really want to know?" She nodded, not looking at him. He sighed, ran a hand through his curls. "This is the first time that I've ever felt absolutely clueless. I only know one thing about this damn case and it's that he is going to use you and I don't know how and I can't let that happen. You've done so much for me, Molly. And I have failed you. I spent too much time seeing you and not enough time observing you and now I feel like it's too late. Even though I will do everything in my power to end all of this and to keep you safe. To keep John and Mary and the future little Watson safe. To keep Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft safe. If I could have ended this a long time ago, if I wouldn't have let my ego get in the way, then none of you would have ever been in danger. And it's my fault." She looked at him hard now, watching tears form in those eyes that she fell so hard for.

"Sherlock, none of this is your fault. This is all because of him."

"We're the same," he started. "He said so himself. And he was right. We're the sa…"

"No. No you're not. Don't say that." She walked over to him now, stripping off her gloves and wrapping her arms around Sherlock's neck, standing between his legs. He looked up at her, hesitantly putting his hands on her waist. "You are nothing like James Moriarty. Maybe you can be manipulative and maybe you have small issues with handling annoying people and maybe you both get high off of the games. But James Moriarty can't do this." She reached up and wiped at his eyes. "And he can't do this." She grabbed his arms and wrapped them tighter around her waist. "And he can't love. But you can, even if you don't realize it. And that's more powerful than any game that Moriarty will ever be able to think up. You love John, Mary, their little Watson, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft. And that's what makes you different. Highly functioning sociopath my arse." She was right, of course. He supposed he did love them all, even if it took her to put the idea into his head. They would always be his greatest and most important weaknesses. But she left someone out. He stared into her eyes and was about to say it to her. _And I love you, Molly. _It should have come so easily to him because he knew that he did. But that steel door still held things that he couldn't let out yet. It was still bolted when it came to things such as love. She smirked at him and kissed the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his curls. She walked away then, leaving a stunned Sherlock to sit there and think.

Just as she got done with the first body, a loud banging caused them both to jump from where they were. Molly turned to see John standing there, the door swinging shut violently behind him. He looked pale as a sheet, his hair mussed and his breath coming out in short bursts.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?" he questioned Sherlock in a loud voice that Molly could tell he was trying to keep quiet. Sherlock looked confused before reaching in his pocket and now noticing that yes, he had ten missed calls. Five from John, three from Mary, and two from Mrs. Hudson.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, a million possibilities running through his head. _Mrs. Hudson's hurt, somebody died, there's a case that needs my attention, Mary's having the baby. Wait. _"The baby," he said, somewhat surprised, even though he shouldn't have been. He had predicted this date months before, but in all the chaos he had completely forgotten about the birth date of his goddaughter. He stood up quickly, rushing over to John's side. He was almost out the door when he turned sharply on his foot, looking back and forth between Molly and John, suddenly conflicted on what to do.

"Go," said Molly. "I'll be fine, Sherlock. No one can get into the morgue without a card." He looked at her thoughtfully, deciding that a quick trip upstairs would be fine. "I'll meet you up there when I'm done," she said, trying to convince him. Sherlock nodded and John was shocked to see him walk over to Molly and place a soft kiss on her cheek before running out the doors.

Molly rested her hand on the spot where Sherlock's lips touched her skin before pulling out what was hopefully the last body. She undressed it and was about to make an incision. It was only then that she saw the unmistakable red glow just beneath the skin. It was then that she saw an incision already made in the girl's chest. And it was then that she heard the soft, constant ticking of a bomb.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: So I know I just updated yesterday but I didn't think you guys would mind having an update today, especially after that cliffhanger. Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!-thefaultoflegend**

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Molly stood there, her hands frozen and hanging over the girl's abdomen. Her knife was still poised in mid-air as panic flooded through her whole body. It was hard to miss the sight with the lights and the ticking. She had never dealt with bombs before but she saw them in movies, read about them in books, and even though she knew that neither of those were a good source of information, she had seen enough to know that she was in danger. She didn't know anything about this bomb. She didn't know how big it was. She didn't know how much time she had. She didn't know if it would just take her or the whole hospital. The whole hospital. John. Mary. Their little girl. Sherlock. The thoughts of her loved ones sprung her into action. She walked over and barricaded the doors to the morgue with filing cabinets and chairs so that no one else could get in. If the bomb was small enough to just take her, then she didn't want anyone else to be in danger. She could run for help but it could be too late by then if the bomb had enough power to take more than just the morgue. She had people to save. She went over to grab her phone only to realize that she didn't have it. It was in Sherlock's jacket pocket. She had left it on the seat of the cab and he had picked it up, depositing it in his coat before walking into the morgue. Okay okay okay okay. Her thoughts raced and she wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time. She was taking in everything, her surroundings, all of the variables of the situation. Don't panic. Don't panic. Think. Think. Think. How to disable a bomb.

She shut her eyes and she was immediately standing in the middle of the morgue, but the one that was in her head. The girl's body was still there, the bomb still ticking. The lights were lower with a spotlight resting on the girl's abdomen. The room was quieter, save for the ticking, as if a veil of silence had been placed over her mind.

"Molly." She heard a voice that was calm and level and so gentle, something she needed in a time like this when her hands were shaking so badly and her head was spinning and she was almost convinced that she was going to pass out. "Molly," the voice said again and she recognized the low baritone of Sherlock. Her mind-palace self felt hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her slightly, and a body materialized in front of her. Sherlock was standing before her, the mind palace version dressed in his belstaff and scarf, his purple shirt sticking out of the coat. "This isn't just games anymore," he told her looking deep into her eyes. "This is real. The bomb itself is small but when it goes off it will take you with it and Moriarty will have won. Molly, you are most certainly going to die so we need to focus." His hands gripped her shoulders harder and it calmed her down as she nodded her head slowly while her real-self started working. "It's lucky that I have taught you how to use a mind palace but you have absolutely no idea how long you have left to use it. It could be seconds. It could be hours. But it doesn't matter. So, c'mon. What do you need to do?"

"I need to get to the bomb," said Molly, shakily.

"Exactly," replied Sherlock. "It is concealed just inside the girl. So it's all about one thing now. Making the cut. We need to decide where to do it." She picked up her knife again and tried to steady her hands before cutting in but they were still shaking.

"Directly over the previous incision."

"Breath, Molly. Take a deep breath and relax." She listened and she stabilized her hands before cutting. "Don't go too deep, just enough to get access to the bomb." She cut carefully and let out a big breath as she successfully made the full incision. She could see that there were several sticks of dynamite wrapped together tightly. It was bigger than she originally expected. But the part that scared her the most was the countdown.

"There are fifteen seconds left," she said to Sherlock who was now standing on the other side of the table. She could feel the panic coming in again, crashing into her like waves against a rocky shore. She felt like she was being knocked around.

"That's okay. That's more than enough time. Now remember what I told you a few days ago. We talked about bombs. In the kitchen. Remember, Molly. Remember." Her mind palace-self started running. She had since expanded the morgue to include more rooms out in the hallway. She was running down, flinging doors open, looking for the memory that could help save her life. Then she saw it. The door was black with dirty gold numbers at the top, a small knocker under them. 221B. Sherlock's room. She flung the door opened and ran up the stairs, coming to a dead stop when she stood in front of the kitchen.

Another her was sitting there in one of his dressing gowns with a pair of googles on. She had developed the habit of stealing the gowns when the drafty flat became too much for her. Sherlock was there, too, with identical goggles. He was peering into a dish of blood, talking about the experiment they were currently running about how long it takes blood to dry under certain conditions. She was watching him intently, taking in the way his curls hung over the goggles and the way his eyebrows scrunched together when he was focusing.

The moment had taken place just a few days before, one of the days right after she had created the mind palace. They weren't really doing anything, just sitting around being bored and waiting for another body to be found or any more clues to be discovered. So they had decided to experiment. Molly watched as they got into a deep conversation, remembering it well.

"So have you ever been really afraid when you were on a case?" she asked him. She didn't really think he would answer such an emotion filled question but they had been getting closer, so she never knew. He thought for a minute.

"Well when John and I were in that train car with that bomb. Remember that?" She nodded her head, having heard the story a few times. "It caught me off guard a little bit, but it turned out okay. Remember, there's always a switch."

Molly immediately left her mind palace and fully focused in, seeing that only five seconds had passed. She dug her hands carefully inside the body until she located a small silver switch on the side of the package. She took another deep breath, readying herself, knowing that this could all go terribly wrong.

She switched it off and the ticking immediately stopped. Molly collapsed to the floor, feeling relief run through her. But then she wondered if that was the game. If killing her was the game. And now that she defeated it, what would happen next?

She ran over to the doors, ripping the filing cabinets away from them and then running, running so fast, trying to get to the stairs because the elevators would take way too long. And she had to get to Sherlock. She had to tell him what just happened. He had to know they were still in danger. She reached the stairs and had her hand on the door, ready to fling it open and take off, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Another hand pushed against her mouth, quieting any screams that she was trying to release. And as she kicked and fought, she recognized the feel of the body that was holding onto her, recognized the weight of that arm around her middle, and when he told her to be quiet, recognized the voice that came from his mouth. Tom.

Sherlock and John had just arrived on the maternity floor as they saw Lestrade walking towards them. They turned to each other, exchanging questioning looks. "I don't mean to be rude, mate but what are you doing here?" asked John. It was only then that Sherlock noticed Lestrade's rumpled appearance, his shallow breathing, and his rush to get to them.

"Somebody called about a bomb here. We're evacuating," he said quickly and watched as the two men before him shrank back, wide looks of surprise, shock, and fear running over their faces.

"My wife is going to have a baby within the next twenty minutes!" shouted John but his voice was being cancelled out by the sudden flurry of activity that surrounded him. People were running everywhere, nurses and doctors and families and patients, all trying to make it out with their loved ones with them. Because they knew that yes, there was a bomb. And that yes, many of them would have died. But they also didn't know about a pathologist who took everything that the consulting detective had told her and stored it away in her mind. Sure, her palace would never be as good as his. But it saved people. And that is what mattered.

As soon as Lestrade uttered the word bomb, Sherlock's mind was on that woman who was now down in the lab by herself. He cursed himself for being so stupid, for thinking that he could let her alone even for a few minutes. He took off running, with John yelling after him, but he didn't stop. He didn't stop until he got downstairs and saw the sings of a struggle. A cabinet knocked over in the hallway, blood smeared on the walls from cut hands desperately trying to cling on to anything to save her. He peeked in the morgue where he saw the body from that afternoon and the red glowing still coming out of it. He ran over, relieved to see that someone had disabled it, but not relieved to see that his Molly was nowhere to be found. He felt like sinking to the ground, covering his hands over his face, and crying. It felt like that night right after he had killed Magnussen, a small, vulnerable child wanting nothing more than to be comforted. But he didn't have time to waste.

He turned around and started running again, flying out the bottom floor of the hospital and into the bright sunlight. He knew he needed to contact Lestrade and let him know that the bomb had been disabled, but he desperately wanted to just find Molly. Save the life he heard John's words in his head and in an act of unselfishness, he pulled out his cell phone to call Lestrade and tell him what he found. When he was hanging up, he saw the flash of a white van pulling out into the street, with the flap of a lab coat hanging out of the closed doors. If it were anybody else, they wouldn't have noticed. They would have just gone on their way, doing whatever it was that normal people did. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and he needed to save his Molly.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Hello, my wonderful readers! I am so happy with the response this story has gotten and I really hope you guys like this chapter. I never expected a little one shot that I thought of to turn into this twenty-one chapter story with this many followers. That's awesome and I'd like to thank each and every one of you for reading. One more chapter after this one and then…a sequel. Sound good? Let me know what you think!-thefaultoflegend**

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It was dark, the darkest room she'd ever been in. It was the kind of blackness that made people go crazy, imagining images in the ill-lighted remains of their vision. Coal miners seeing soda machines and food after days of being stuck in the ground. Excavators finding monsters in the shadows. And a pathologist seeing the outline of her consulting detective coming to her rescue. But no. Sherlock wasn't there. He couldn't be. There was no way he could have known that she had been kidnapped let alone that she disarmed a bomb and possibly saved the whole hospital. That didn't mean she didn't have hope, though. Hope that he would come. The hope that was so familiar to her, as she had felt it a thousand times before, waiting for him to show up to her flat in the middle of the night, another piece of Moriarty's web cut apart, him needing a safe space for that night, keeping a promise that he would always come home. The kind of hope that lasted for two years, that he would always be okay. It's what kept her sane when the lights suddenly flicked on and Tom stood before her. So she wasn't imagining things. Sherlock wasn't there, but Tom was, dressed the same way he was on the day she met him. It just went to show how she only went out with him because of how similar he was to Sherlock.

She wondered how she could have been so stupid. Of course it wasn't just a coincidence that this man looked like Sherlock. It was all part of a plan, an important step in a game. She knew if she hadn't felt so lonely and isolated this never would have happened. She never would have fallen for boring Tom and she wouldn't be there, wherever she was right then. Her eyes finally adjusted to the light, and she watched as Moriarty walked from behind Tom. She wasn't tied up, she wasn't gagged, but it didn't matter. It wasn't like she had anywhere to run. It wasn't like she couldn't see the guns sticking out Tom's coat. So she sat still, trying to evade death for as long as possible.

"Well, well, well," clucked Moriarty as he took a step toward her and grabbed her arms, pulling her to a standing position. Her limbs ached in protest. She had fought so hard before with Tom to try and get away before he easily knocked her out. Moriarty now grabbed a hold of her face, forcing her to look him in the eyes. Molly fought the urge to lash out, knowing that if she did, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her.

"Someone's been a naughty girl." His eyes were alive with the fire of revenge and Tom chuckled next to him. Molly suddenly felt so dirty standing there, looking at the two men whom she had once felt a connection with, whom she had once given herself to. She would undo it all if she could. She knew how Sherlock felt now, wanting to go back and erase the past few years, starting all over. Moriarty pushed her away a step and she struggled to regain her balance, trying to show him that she was not weak. "Not so brave now, are we, Ms. Hooper?" Molly looked from him to Tom, trying to figure out how she could get out of this safely. And as she assessed her options, they didn't look good. "Is it all coming together now? You are a goner. Poor little pathologist Molly, desperate for a boyfriend. She just couldn't resist Jim from IT, who listened to her and made her feel special. She got bored and broke it off. She never suspected that she was being used. So she goes back to pawning over her consulting detective, daydreaming about doing all sorts of things to him, visions of them together. And then Sherlock Holmes, asks her to save his life. How could she not? After trailing him like a puppy for years. It's disgusting really, Molly. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Well it looks like you're just as obsessed with him," she remarked, suddenly gaining more courage. She had enough years of Sherlock flinging insults at her to know how to handle them. And she didn't have any trouble doing this to James Moriarty.

"Yes, well. I do enjoy some fun. The thrill of the chase, getting high off of games. Sherlock is an easy target, of course. His weaknesses are my strengths. Obsessed with him? Not exactly. Obsessed with what he gives me? Yes, I'll have to admit to that one. So tell me, Molly. What does he give you?" He got right up in her face, his breath hot against her cheek. She battled with her body, trying to stay still when all she wanted to do was back away. She didn't answer him, instead closing her eyes. "Oh, nothing then? Well I'm not sure what you were expecting. Surely you should know that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't make a very good boyfriend. I should know, right? I mean we're the same. And look at the rubbish boyfriend that I made."

"He is nothing like you," she practically spat. "Sherlock Holmes is the greatest man I have ever known. He may have not started out that way, but he is there now, I assure you."

"Liar!" he shouted and his voice reverberated across the room, bouncing off of those desolate walls. "Sherlock Holmes is an idiot."

"But he destroyed you. He destroyed your entire network. You have nothing left," she replied.

"Yes, but with him gone I can rebuild, make it bigger and better than ever. And the games will always continue. He overlooked Tom, of course. Wasn't observing, was he? I overlooked you, I'll admit. But not this time, Molly. Getting Tom here to dress up like Sherlock, act a part. You surprised us again, breaking it off. You're just full of surprises, huh Molly. So we killed the women, found the ones that looked like you. Well Tom took care of that part. Didn't see that one coming, did you Molls? And with each knew body we watched as Sherlock Holmes cracked. And we watched you glue pieces back together, mend the fractures. But once something has cracked it can never be as strong as it once was. Sherlock falling in love with you was the easy part. No need to manipulate that one. What a lovely happily ever after. With you gone, he'll surely break." He backed away from Molly and Tom pulled the gun from his pocket and released the safety, pointing it right at Molly's head.

"Sherlock Holmes does not love me," she said, though she wasn't sure why. It was like an automatic response, like after years of being turned down she thought it would always be too good to be true. She tried to keep calm, but her voice was shaking. The day had been emotionally traumatizing from start to finish and it was starting to catch up with her. Moriarty let out a howl.

"He does, though. He should know by now that caring is a disadvantage." And Molly saw the movement, Tom's finger on the trigger, the look of insanity crossing his features. "So, Molly." Tom was going to do it any second now, waiting for Moriarty's command, she could tell. But then she spotted something new, something unexpected, someone full of surprises. A flash of curly hair, the billowing coat. She had no clue how he could have gotten there, how Tom and Jim missed him. But it didn't matter. Because he was there and there was a chance now, however small, that they could win. Her and her partner in solving the world's crimes. He was standing far behind Jim, just inside the door. He caught her eyes, noticing the fear, and put his fingers to his lips then pointed to Moriarty. And she knew what she had to do. "Any last words?" Moriarty asked her now.

"Just four," said Sherlock, his voice sounding so clear to Molly, cutting through her fear and wrapping her in warmth. Tom and Moriarty turned around, looks of shock on their faces. Sherlock gave a threatening smile before uttering his next words. "Did you miss me?"

Molly launched into action, knocking Moriarty hard from behind. He flung forward and she briefly saw Sherlock run at him. Tom was too late to shoot, as Molly ran into him, too, during his state of shock. She grabbed his gun, not even thinking when she pulled the trigger, not even registering that Sherlock had shot his gun as well. She watched as Tom stumbled backward and landed hard, blood pouring from his head. She turned sharply then, the gun still in her hands, having all intentions to shoot Moriarty as well. But what she found instead was Sherlock, standing there, his arm around Moriarty's throat and the other arm pressing a gun to the side of the consulting criminal's head.

"It's me," Sherlock whispered as he eyed her gun and her hands began to shake again and what he saw in her eyes broke his heart. She looked absolutely terrified, completely broken, and he hated seeing Molly like that. She had been his rock for years, someone she could constantly depend on and now he realized that he wanted to be the person that she could depend on as well. Sherlock didn't believe in miracles. The very definition of a miracle went against everything he believed in. Cannot be explained by natural or scientific laws. But it was a miracle that Moriarty had overlooked the one person that had mattered the most. It was a miracle that someone so incredible could choose to him to love unconditionally. It was a miracle that he had learned how to love, however it was not a miracle that it was Molly Hooper. It was the most obvious thing in the world. Explained by her laugh and the way her eyes shone when she talked about something she loved and her sternness with him when he did something not good, and the way she was always right, and how she wasn't bothered at all by body parts in the fridge and how she much preferred to stay in with take away, running experiments, rather than going out to boring parties, and how she always knew how to calm him down, and how she knew just what to do to take away his boredom and how he was never bored when she was around. Loving Molly was so natural and he promised himself in that moment that he would do everything he could to always keep her around, to always keep her safe, to try to become the person she deserved. His gaze softened as he looked at her and he so desperately wanted to reach out to her and he almost forgot that he was currently holding the world's worst criminal at gunpoint. "It's okay. Put the gun down, Molly," he whispered with more tenderness than he knew he had. She did as she was told and took a few steps back from the pair. Moriarty was struggling to break free from Sherlock's grasp but Sherlock held him tightly.

"Did you really think I wouldn't be wearing a vest?" gasped Moriarty. Sherlock had tried to shoot him, but it didn't do any damage.

"No. But I did know you wouldn't have a gun. Don't like to get your hands dirty. Looks like you made a mistake there," replied Sherlock. "So using Molly to get to me? It looks like you made another mistake. She's too clever for you to take down. Disarming your bomb and taking down your only accomplice in the world. Well, besides the man we already have in jail. But by the way, who called about the bomb, hmm? My DI got the call. But if Tom was getting Molly and your other man is locked up, who did it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Moriarty as he still wriggled in Sherlock's arm. "You have your chance to kill me, Sherlock Holmes. One bullet through the head and I'm dead. So why haven't you done it yet?"

"Killing you would be too kind. Oh no, I'm sure my brother has much better plans for you." The thought was what had stopped Sherlock from just snapping his neck right then and there. This man had hurt everyone that Sherlock held dear and killing him would be too easy. Isolating him for the rest of his life, not giving him any sort of contact with anyone, that would drive him mad. He had a look at the Moriarty in his mind palace, the one who was chained up and in a padded room, going insane all on his own. He enjoyed that image of him, utterly defeated. Sherlock looked up at Molly then who was standing there, watching the whole encounter. "Hey. Molly Hooper. Handcuffs, my right jacket pocket." She walked over to him slowly, retrieving the cuffs and then wrapping them around Moriarty's wrists entirely too tightly, loving the satisfying little click they made. "Mycroft!" Sherlock suddenly yelled and in that moment twenty or so men ran into the room, beginning to lift Tom's lifeless body up off of the ground and then escorting Moriarty away.

"Where are they taking him?" asked Molly as Mycroft came strolling up to the two of them.

"To a high security prison. There's no way he will ever be able to get out, I assure you," replied Mycroft. "Tell me, Ms. Hooper, how did you disarm the bomb?"

Molly's cheeks flushed crimson as she snuck a look at Sherlock. "Uh… mind palace… Sherlock talked me through it, the Sherlock in my head." Mycroft gave a small smile.

"Well, it seems you may have found your goldfish, little brother." Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother and Molly smiled softly.

"Does that just mean you're upping my security levels?" joked Molly halfheartedly.

"You're security levels have been very high for a very long time, Ms. Hooper. But I have to say that I'm glad to see my little brother is finally realizing why. Perhaps sentiment can be found on the winning side as well," he remarked as he looked over the blood that was left from Tom. "Good work, Ms. Hooper," he said as he shook Molly's hand. "And as for you, Sherlock. Just don't mess this up." He eyed the both of them before walking out. Unless Sherlock was completely mistaken, he just received a blessing from his older brother.

"Mycroft!" he called after him and the elder Holmes turned around, swinging his umbrella as he did so. "Thank you."

Sherlock and Molly were left in the mostly empty room. They stared at each other for a few seconds before she ran at him and he wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close to him. He pulled her back then, inspecting her body for any signs of injury. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"I'm fine. Just a little dizzy. Tom knocked me out. It's probably just a small concussion." Sherlock sighed in relief that she was basically fine. He pulled her into him, wrapping his long arms tightly around her, feeling like he couldn't get her close enough.

"I thought…" he started but then cut off, shaking his head and then resting it against hers. Her arms tightened around him. "I thought I lost you."

"Please tell me it's over," she squeaked out.

"It is. You did it Molly. We did it. It's over." She let out a sigh that was building up for three years and he felt that burden lifted off of both sets of their shoulders. He reached up to cradle her face in his hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead and then his forehead against hers. "I can't believe you disarmed a bomb by yourself," he told her while staring into her eyes.

"Well, I learn from the best. How did you know I was here?"

"I saw your lab coat sticking out of the van. I stole someone's car and followed it here, called Mycroft on the way. He sent a team over but they stayed back until I gave the signal. You just took down two criminal masterminds, you realize that, right?" he asked with a small laugh and she smiled back, starting to feel the haze from her concussion settling in and Sherlock's soft voice soothing her tired head. "The one who counted. The one who mattered the most. My Molly." She grinned at him and then buried her face in his chest, feeling so safe in his embrace, being able to feel the shuddering breath he took before he spoke again, his next words making both of them smile with radiance. "And you should know that you were wrong, Molly Hooper. When you said I don't love you? I do."


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Last chapter :( I didn't think I would feel sad about this story ending but I do. It was a lot of fun to write. I'm going to start writing the sequel very soon. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, or favorited. You guys are all awesome and I hope you enjoyed this little tale. I also hope this last chapter is to your liking and that I did all of these beautiful characters and the fantastic world of Sherlock Holmes some justice. Let me know what you think and thank you again for taking the time to read this. It really does mean a lot. Until next time!-thefaultoflegend**

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Ava Liam Watson. Mary and the baby are doing well. Congratulations on being a godfather. - JW

Sherlock was sitting in the back of a cab beside Molly when he got the message. The two of them had quickly gotten out of the old warehouse that James and Tom ended up taking Molly to, and Mycroft got them a car to take them straight to the hospital. Sherlock had about twenty different messages, most of them from Lestrade, saying that the hospital was clear of any other bombs, and that everyone was safe and sound. The one text message that mattered most, however, was the one from his best friend, announcing the arrival of his baby girl. Sherlock broke into a wide grin when he got the message. He wasn't sure how he would handle the new Watson, and the thought of being a godfather terrified him. He had absolutely no idea how to even hold a baby let alone how to take care of one. But, right then he was excited. The day had been the best he could remember in a long time. His number one enemy was being escorted to prison, his best friend had a baby, and the one person who mattered the most currently had her hand in his.

"What are you so happy about?" she asked him while he still stared down at his phone. He reached over and showed her the next.

"Liam. William. They named her after me," he said proudly and Molly couldn't help but reach up and kiss his cheek.

"Ava Liam. I like it. Liam is an unusual name for a girl but…"

"But she has John Watson, adrenaline junkie, and Mary Watson, trained assassin, as her parents. She may turn out to be a little bit unusual."

"Exactly. And I bet you won't mind that one bit." He broke out into a grin and shook his head. "Are you excited to see her?"

"Nervous. I'm not exactly an expert in the field of babies. But I have watched a lot of YouTube videos about them." She laughed out loud and the sound was like music to his ears. She was still a little cloudy, he could tell by the far-away look in her eyes, but there was still something hidden there, behind the laughter, behind the smile. She looked out the window, away from him, leaning her head against the seat.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said suddenly, but she didn't turn to look. "For using you all of those years. You don't deserve that from anyone. Not from Tom, not from Moriarty, and especially not from me." He pinpointed exactly what she was thinking.

"Why do the people I care about always use me? Moriarty only dated me to get to you, fine. You always used me for lab access and body parts, it's just who you are. But I thought that with Tom, as much as I didn't want to be with him anymore, at least he didn't use me for anything. That he liked me just for me. I guess I was wrong. I thought I could have at least one person who just wanted me for me and nothing else."

"I want you for you," he said and she turned to him to look at him, finally. He could read everything about her in those eyes, like all of her thoughts and feelings where his for the taking as long as he could get her to look at him. Right then, he was expecting to see anger, sadness. But what he saw instead was love, and it hit him right in that icy heart of his that was finally beginning to thaw. "I was a complete arsehole to you Molly Hooper and I don't deserve you at all, I know that. But somewhere along the way, I didn't want you for lab access or body parts, I wanted you because… because you made be better. You deserve so much better than what I've given you so far. You deserve all of the happiness you can get, Molly Hooper. And I want to make you a promise."

"You don't make promises. Your last promise, your last vow, was to John and Mary and Ava."

"Yes and I also change moods at the drop of a hat. So I'm making you a promise, Molly." He paused then, letting out a frustrated groan and running his hands through his curls, willing the words to just leave his brain and get out. It had become easier, explaining his feelings, but he still struggled at times. She squeezed his hand encouragingly and he tried again. "I promise you that I'll never use you again, Molly. You have given so much to me and I have taken so much from you and that's not fair. And from now on, I'm going to give everything I can to you. Everything I am capable of. I know that I wouldn't make the best…boyfriend. I would be irritable and frustrating and I'll forget important dates and you might not see me for days at a time and you'll have to beg me to eat and sleep and I'll eventually snap at you for something idiotic and then feel horrible about it later. But I promise that I'll try to be better for you. I just…" He looked at her and saw a smile on her face then.

"Keep going. You're so close," she said and he smiled back.

"I just want you to be mine," he whispered and then her lips were on his, her arms over his shoulders. And he was kissing her back, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist.

"Yours," she said when they broke apart and he gave her another soft kiss just before they arrived at Bart's. He helped her out, paid the driver, and they walked over to the front doors. "You ready?" she asked as she slipped her hands in his.

He laughed lightly, his eyes lighting up. "That game is on."

* * *

Ava Liam Watson was 51.2 cm and 3.4 kilograms, a perfect weight and height for a newborn baby. She had her father's nose and her mother's eyes and light blond hair that could barely be seen unless one was standing close enough. She had a strong grip and a surprisingly clear focus as she looked up at her mother.

Sherlock grew unusually quiet when he and Molly walked into Mary's hospital room. He gave Mary a kiss on the forehead, shook John's hand and offered congratulations, but then he snuck back to a corner of the room and sat in a chair, observing the little girl that Mary held in her arms. She was so tiny. Sherlock knew that babies were tiny but Ava looked like she could break if someone even touched her the wrong way. She was quiet as well. Sherlock expected screaming but she really just lay there, occasionally moving her small fist around.

"So are the two of you going to tell us what happened?" asked John, who had been keeping quiet while sitting in a chair beside the bed, staring intently at his new daughter.

"Molly and I are in a relationship," replied Sherlock. "I think," he added while glancing at Molly. They all laughed quietly as to not disturb the small Watson.

"Well I'm happy for you mate. It's about time. But I was actually asking about what happened with Moriarty."

"Ah…yes. Well Molly disarmed the bomb that was concealed inside the body of the fifth murdered girl."

"You disarmed a bomb?" asked Mary and John at the same time.

"Yeah. Sherlock taught me how a few days ago. And then he came to my mind palace to tell me how to do it again."

"Yes, that's interesting. Because when I got shot you were the one who was in my mind palace, saving my life," added Sherlock.

"I was?" she asked, coming over to him now. He nodded and she leaned down to kiss his forehead before perching herself on his lap.

"That's something I'm going to have to get used to," said John while pulling a face, but Sherlock and Molly just smiled. Sherlock went on to explain the rest of the case to John, how Moriarty was using Molly to get to him and how Tom was in on it as well.

"There's only one thing that I don't understand," said Sherlock when he got to the end of his explanation. "Who called Lestrade about the bomb? Who else would have known about it?" They sat in silence for a few moments, each trying to make their own deductions about who could have done it.

"Well I wouldn't worry about that now," said Mary. "You have a goddaughter to hold, Sherlock." He shifted uncomfortably under Molly and mumbled something about maybe later.

"You just took down the most dangerous man in the world and you can't hold your goddaughter?" she asked him with a smile.

"You first," he replied. Molly gently took the baby from Mary. Ava fussed for a few seconds, but Molly rocked her a little bit and she was fine then. Sherlock watched closely as she spoke quietly to the little girl and he got a strange feeling, something that he couldn't name at all. It was almost nice to see Molly holding a baby. She knew exactly what to do with her.

She looked up at him after a few minutes. "Sit up straight." He did as he was told and she walked over with Ava still in her arms. "Just support her head, okay? You're not going to break her." He nodded nervously and the next thing he knew he was holding his goddaughter in his arms, looking down upon the face of this little creature who wasn't there a couple of hours ago and who right then was laying in his arms, happily it seemed, as a small smile crossed the baby's face. The word miracle flashed across his mind for the second time that day and he felt an overwhelming feeling of love for this little human that he only just met.

"Hello, Ava," he whispered quietly. "I'm Sherlock. You're godfather, I suppose." He smiled softly. "I promised your parents I'd take care of you. So I'll make the promise to you, too. I will always be here for you, Ava." He bent down to softly kiss the little girl's forehead and when he looked up he was met with three pairs of watery eyes all staring back at him.

* * *

After saying their goodbyes, Sherlock and Molly walked out into the night of London, feeling better than they had in weeks, than they had in years possibly. It was a clear night so the pair decided to walk home instead of taking a cab. Molly would stay at Sherlock's until her concussion was better, and then, much to Sherlock's dismay, she would be returning to her flat. But maybe not for very long. The stars were shining brightly and Sherlock took Molly's hand as the strolled happily along. "Do you believe in love at first sight, Molly?" he asked. The question came out of nowhere and Molly whipped her head around to look up at him. He knew that he only just started recognizing love but once he did it, it was hard to ignore.

"Now I know you're not talking about me," she replied with a laugh.

"No," he said quietly. "Ava."

"Well, yes I believe in love at first sight. And I knew you would love that little girl as soon as you looked at her. You're going to make a really great godfather."

"Well, I might need a little bit of help. You seem to know what you're doing."

"Not really. It's just instinct I guess. Like how women are more attuned to babies' cries." They walked in silence for a few minutes, although it wasn't uncomfortable in anyway. "You know, we haven't even been on a date yet."

"I know. How about some coffee?"

Molly smiled brightly, already having the answer in her head. "Black, two sugars."

"Very funny," he said before grabbing her and pulling her towards him as she let out a little squeal. He brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes, marveling that she was in his arms. Molly. The pathologist from St. Bart's, suddenly his. "I never thought I could be a part of a team. And now look. John and I. Mary and Ava and I. You and I."

"We make a good one," said Molly, staring into the eyes of her consulting detective.

"That we do, Molly Hooper." He kissed her and they set off again. "How about dinner instead? I'm starving."

"Fish and chips?"

"Sounds perfect." They went on their way and talked about anything and everything, all of the things they were excited to do with Ava, all of the experiments they were going to run now that they had free time. Their laughs and voices were lifted up to the London night, carried down that long street. Another day gone. Another life saved. The consulting detective and his pathologist. Nothing could take them down.


	22. Sequel Update

Hello! This isn't a chapter update. It's just a note that the first chapter to the sequel to this story, How to Admit to Sherlock, is now up and ready to be read. I hope you guys like it!-thefaultoflegend


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